


I'm Hopelessly Hopeful (You're Just Hopeless Enough)

by throwupsparkles



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Getting Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Misunderstandings, Sexual Content, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:55:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 43,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25536175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/throwupsparkles/pseuds/throwupsparkles
Summary: When neglected and stifled trophy husband Pete Wentz shares a metaphysical connection with failing musician Patrick Stump, things get...complicated.
Relationships: Gabe Saporta/Pete Wentz, Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 273
Kudos: 121





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the movie In Your Eyes (2014)
> 
> My other wip is almost done, so I started thinking about my next project. Fast forward to me writing until 5am and realizing that I need to let this out now rather than wait...so here's another wip that no one asked for lol <3

Pete hates nights like these. 

The ones where he’s squeezed into designer jeans that never quite have the same feel as the pair from Goodwill he’s hung onto all these years. His hair looks flat ironed to death and he has half the mind to shave it all off just so he can erase the image he sees in the mirror. 

He braces himself on the sink and leans over it, thinking that if he’s sick at least it’ll go down the drain. His heart is racing and whenever he notices that, it’s so hard to think about anything else. It’s fucking near impossible to breathe, he has to shout at his body to do something that should be automatic. But he’s Pete fucking Wentz, nothing is ever easy. 

He’s supposed to be out there mingling among the wealthy doctors and their spouses, maybe dangling on Gabe’s arm like the arm candy he’s dressed up as. He’s supposed to be out there not being Gabe’s crazy husband, the one that everyone whispers about when they think he can’t hear. 

The bathrooms in these places are always gaudy as hell, and he wrinkles his nose at the overly ornamented facet to splash cold water on his face. _Just breathe, you’re ok_. 

He gives himself a few more splashes, a couple more deep inhales before he looks up in the mirror. 

And he must really be going crazy, because for a moment, he’s not staring at himself, but at a man a little younger than him with overly bleached hair, standing up in disarray and, fuck, is he wearing a bow-tie? But before Pete can blink and consider his sanity, the bathroom door opens and Gabe walks in. 

Pete turns to him and smiles sweetly. “Hey.”

Gabe hesitates. “Are you doing ok?”

Pete turns back to the mirror and when he’s met by his own reflection, he’s a little disappointed but says, “Yeah, I’m coming back out now.”

Gabe smiles gently and takes his hand, leading him out into the ballroom that Gabe’s hospital has booked out. He’s not even really sure what the occasion is tonight, probably to celebrate some rich doctor. Just another flex of money in this city and it’s almost worse that they’re doctors. LA has plenty of money, but the way that the doctors flex their money is worse than movie stars. Because doctors also have a loaded God Complex.

“Cock it and pull it,” Pete mumbles.  
  
“What was that?” Gabe asks, patting Pete's hand that’s wrapped around his arm. 

“Nothing,” Pete says quietly and he looks away before he can see the way Gabe frowns. He hates it when Pete talks to himself. 

As they walk through the room, Pete can’t help but feel eyes on him, measuring him up and down. There was a time when Pete would have loved this sort of attention, back when he was younger and thought his good looks would take him places. Back when he would be on stage shirtless with his tattoos shining under the sweat and stage lights. He loved feeling everyone looking then, craved more and more until he started to realize that was all he was worth. 

Gabe moves around the room, stopping to talk to someone here and there and in the beginning, Pete had tried to keep up with the conversations. He would store medical terms and phrases in his mind to look up later so that he would have something to contribute to the next conversation. But he had learned the hard way that no one wanted to hear what he had to say, that Gabe would blush in slight mortification when Pete would try to feel included, stumbling over terminology he hadn’t spent years in school studying. He thought that him trying would make Gabe proud. 

He’s more content when Pete keeps his mouth shut and slightly pouty instead. Only likes to see it move when it’s wrapped around a beer bottle suggestively. Pete puts on the act for him, makes sure he smiles at the appropriate times, winks at any onlookers, and moves his hips in a subtle enough manner that makes it look effortless. He knows by now what Gabe is looking for, he just wishes that he wanted a husband instead of a trophy to show off to all his friends. 

“I’m going to grab another drink,” Pete says quietly against Gabe’s ear. 

Gabe nods and gives him a look that Pete knows means that this is his last drink of the evening. He tries not to feel the bitterness of the exchange slide down his throat as he walks to the bar. It’s easy to push away when he focuses on his surroundings instead of what’s going on internally, a trick his therapist had taught him. He looks over the crisp white linen clothes coating the tables, decorated with different tiers of candles and glass ornaments. He takes in the thick gold curtains lining the perimeter of the room, how the lighting is dimmed to a soft amber to make everyone’s botox look slightly more believable. 

But then he sees a pool table in the middle of the room, and well, that hadn’t been there before. He’s pretty sure he would have noticed a giant slate table coated with felt. And the men dressed in flannel leaning over the edge with aluminum canned beers are seriously out of place. The more he’s walking closer, the more his environment melts away and he sees tall cocktail tables with people in denim and boxed dyed hair leaning over them. The crystal bar that he had been walking towards has morphed into wood with stickers coating it, the modelesque bartender dressed in a fitted suit is now a balding man with an army jacket on. 

“What the fuck?” Pete breathes. 

He keeps walking, trying to piece together what’s happening. The bartender looks up and waits for him to make it close enough to talk to him. Maybe it’s like a game, Pete thinks, maybe he’s his guide and he’ll tell him what’s going on. 

He feels himself run into someone and he’s about to apologize but before he can say anything, he hears “Fucking little…” and then he’s hit with a force that sends him to the floor. He’s vaguely aware that he must have knocked over some drinks or something because his back is damp. 

_What the fuck?_

“Pete? Honey?” 

He’s being pulled up and into Gabe’s arms. Pete can feel the wild look on his face, can see the mirrored expression on Gabe’s face as he whispers, “Hey, why don’t you go outside and get some fresh air? Maybe you’ve had one to many tonight?”

Pete nods dumbly, looking past him to see that he’s back in the ballroom. The low rumble of previous conversations have lowered to speculative murmurs, eyes trying to subtly take a look at Gabe’s crazy husband. 

“Yeah, ok,” Pete whispers, turning to take a shaky step outside. 

His jaw still is throbbing when he gets outside. What the fuck is happening to him? Sure, he’s had some issues before--but never hallucinations. Pete takes in lungfuls of the heavy smog filled LA air and reaches out to grip the balcony rail. Only when he extends his hands, his warm toned skin has paled and is dressed in fingerless leather gloves. 

“What the fuck?” He repeats. 

*

“Look, all I’m saying is that Donatello is the best fucking Ninja Turtle and the rest of you are smoking crack,” Patrick slurs, stumbling off his bar stool.

The bartender does not look impressed and the guy he’s been having this conversation has eyes glazed over like he’s been checked out of the discussion for awhile. 

“Right,” Patrick mumbles, then turns to the bartender, “Bathroom?”

The bartender chuckles and points off into the distance. 

Patrick should not be in this dive bar. He’s just gotten off stage maybe an hour ago and he had thought that rockstars went to much more impressive places afterwards. He’s quickly learning that the glamorous life he had pictured for himself is dulling down to flickering bar lights over dusty pool tables. 

He pushes the germ infested door and trips over his own footing, catching himself on the porcelain sink just in time to save himself from bashing his teeth in. 

“Whoops,” he chuckles softly, but it sounds hollow even in his ears. 

He looks down to turn on the faucet, letting the water run for a bit and drifting off into his thoughts. He shouldn’t even be here, he should be in bed so that he can have a good soundcheck tomorrow. He’s gotten sloppy. And he can’t even remember the last time he sat down to try and compose again. It’s like this tour has done the exact opposite of what he wanted it to do. He had thought that going on tour would have sparked more excitement in him, he was finally putting out music he was excited about. And he thought that it had been making waves, but it seems like each city he goes to brings out a smaller and smaller crowd. 

It’s not the first night he’s drowned the image of a quarter filled venue out of his mind.

 _Alright, enough of the self-deprecation_ , he thinks as he scoops water into his hands and rubs it on his sweaty face. He can feel the last of his stage makeup slip off and he wonders why it feels so good to peel off that last bit of the image--the last of this character he’s been hiding behind. 

He looks up, preparing to have a nice long chat with the Patrick in the mirror. Ask him how the fuck he let things get so strayed from the plan. 

But he’s not staring at himself. He frowns and turns around, but no one’s there and Patrick feels really foolish--because that didn’t make any sense, did it? He looks back at the mirror and sees a man with darkened hair, straightened and styled to hang just in his golden eyes rimmed with dark liner. Patrick watches with intrigue as the door in the mirror, heavier and much more polished than the wooden one he had pushed through, opens and reveals another man. The man in the mirror turns and looks at the new arrival, and then Patrick is looking at himself again. 

His reflection frowns and he looks back to the door, wooden again. Patrick reaches out to touch the mirror and laughs at himself as his fingers brush against the hard surface. 

“Stupid,” he mutters and turns to leave. 

He gets caught at the door again, because this is really stupid. There’s got to be some sort of trick he’s not seeing. He wonders if he’s being punk’d, but no, that show hasn’t been on in ages and it’s not like he’s famous enough to end up on a MTV show like that. What the fuck is he thinking? 

Patrick loves puzzles, so he traces his hands over the wood and is disappointed when it doesn’t offer any clues. He frowns and walks out, turning back to take another look at it, then decides to just brush it off. 

But it had been just so _real_. He doesn’t think that he has the imagination to come up with what just happened, especially not as inebriated as he is right now. Patrick’s never really been creative, at least not in the artistic sense. Even when he’s creating music, it’s all logical. There’s a pattern to things, a code that he has to break, another puzzle. It’s part of the reason bands have never really worked for him in the past, he just can’t share that sort of responsibility with someone. At least, he hasn’t felt like there was anyone who had the codex like he did, hasn’t met anyone who could fill in the gaps that Patrick kept ignoring and hoped the critics would too. 

He knows that there's something missing from his music. Well, not the _music_ really. It’s, fuck, it’s like he has all these things to say but he can’t get the words out. He can get the _feeling_ there, he can write a bass line that's as moody as a date standing him up at prom, but he can’t put that into words. He knows he’s too literal, that his lyrics don’t have the flare that they should. He knows that his audience is just coming to see him swing his hips against his guitar and they’re not really listening to what he has to say. 

He just needs someone that will listen. That will make the world listen to him. 

Patrick’s too occupied with his inner monologue to notice that he’s stumbling pretty badly now. His boots get caught on one another and the next thing he knows, he’s falling into a man twice his size at the pool table. He winces as he hears the man curse as the pool balls clash together, and that’s never a good sign. 

“Fucking little--” the guy starts, turning around and Patrick is already flinching away but it doesn’t stop the man from pulling his fist back and snapping it forward. 

And then he’s on the floor, laying in what he can assume (or hope) is spilled beer. He cradles his hand to his pounding jaw and smiles painfully when he sees the bartender sigh and walk over to help him up. 

“Let me call you a cab,” he says, looking him over like the pitiful thing that Patrick is. 

“Thanks,” he slurs, “I’ll just…”

He stumbles outside and trips _again_ , but catches himself onto the metal railing that outlines the patio. 

Then stares down at the warm hands that don’t belong to him with wonder. 

“I really need to lay off the whiskey,” he whispers. 


	2. Chapter 2

Pete wakes up to the coffee grinder going off in the kitchen and he groans, burying his face into his pillow and regretting that he bought that for Gabe yet again. But he gets out of bed because he knows that Gabe will get all hovery if he doesn’t, like him sleeping in is a sign that he’s spiraling again. 

He just wishes people would trust him.

Gabe is slathering avocado on some gluten free bread when he shuffles into the kitchen, pulling his old high school sweatshirt over his bare chest. Gabe’s eyes flick up in appreciation, then when Pete’s covered he looks away. “How are you feeling today?” He asks, picking up his phone to scroll through emails. 

Pete just says, “fine” and digs through the pantry to find his box of Apple Jacks cereal. 

Gabe hums then when Pete thinks he’s too far into his emails to continue the conversation, he sets down his phone and gives Pete his full attention. Pete doesn’t think that it should be that off putting, but having Gabe’s undivided attention always makes his skin crawl. Maybe it’s just the way that he looks at him sometimes, like he’s a patient instead of the man he fell in love with years ago. 

Pete barely remembers those kids they were. Has to struggle to remember the first time he saw Gabe watching him from the crowd. Pete’s chest tightens when he recalls the way Gabe’s eyes danced along with Pete as he twirled around on stage, how he fell to his knees with his head thrown back to expose his throat. He had been too naive back then, thinking that being wanted was all that was important. Sometimes he wants to go back and give younger him a hug, except he can’t really tell him that it gets much better. 

His fashion sense gets better at least. 

“Are you listening to me?”

Pete looks up from his bowl of cereal. “Oh, sorry. What?”

Gabe tilts his head, like the new angle will give him the answers he’s searching for. “I asked what happened last night?”

Pete’s been trying to explain it to himself even, but nothing makes sense. The only logically, and, well, _scary_ , explanation is that Pete’s finally losing his mind. Just like everyone had thought he was. 

“I don’t know,” Pete admits, “I think maybe I had a bad reaction to whatever they were serving there.”

He knows it’s a stupid lie, that Gabe sees right through it. Gabe just nods though, letting it go for another day. “Ok,” he says softly, picking his phone back up, “Um, maybe you should get out of the house today?”

Pete takes a bite of cereal, knowing what’s coming up next. Whenever something bad happens, whenever he has a bad day or they get into a fight, Gabe just slides him his credit card and gives him a wink before disappearing into the hospital again. “Sure.”

Gabe gets up from his place at the table, eyes still glued to his phone. “Great, I’ll see you when I get home, it’s going to be another late one,” he says pressing a sloppy kiss to Pete’s cheek. He pauses and goes through his wallet before setting his credit card on the kitchen counter. And then he walks out. 

Pete hasn’t felt the sting of Gabe leaving in awhile, but it’s a dull pain some days. A wound that he’s left untreated for so long that it flares up every now and then. They weren’t always this way. There used to be a time where Gabe hung all over Pete, where he couldn’t keep his hands to himself and whispered sweet things in Pete’s ear. God, Pete misses the days where they couldn’t get out of bed because they were too wrapped into one another. Where Gabe couldn’t bear the thought of Pete slipping out of bed to go to his law classes. 

Back when they were a power couple. When Gabe was in med school and Pete was in law school, they were the couple that everyone was envious of. They’d stay up and sit on the balcony, quizzing each other from flash cards and feeding each other strawberries. Gabe always liked to tease, to place the berry against his lips only to pull away when Pete went to take a bite. Just another telltale sign that Pete missed of Gabe promising the world, but taking it away at the last second. 

He wants to just crawl back in bed. He’s does that some days, sleeps all day and sets an alarm so he’d be up and looking busy by the time that Gabe came home. It’s not even that he’s tired, he’s just so damn bored sitting in this empty house day after day. It’s not that he doesn’t want to work, it’s just that, well, after his breakdown, Gabe thought it would be best for him to stay at home. To be “somewhere with less stimulus” or whatever. Gabe didn’t want him to get overwhelmed. 

And at first Pete loved it because he really did need a break. He had been working way too many hours a week at the firm, coupled with his insomnia and the pressure of making partner at the same young age his dad did--he just snapped. Which is fine, his therapist said it was fine. What did he expect? He had pulled himself so taut that of course he’d snap, he just wished it hadn’t been in the middle of a trial...in the courtroom. 

He spent the first year at home redoing their house. It had been really fun at first, Pete loved that he got to work that creative part of his mind again. He liked holding up paint samples to different rooms and trying to build a new atmosphere with different colors, fabrics, and decor. But after he finished the last room and then redid the landscaping, he felt useless. And he looked at all his hard work and felt hollow, because he really didn’t create a home. He just painted the cage that Gabe had built for him. 

So he tried to find his way back to his old self, he tried to dig up the punk kid that ruled the Chicago scene--even went as far as having his mom send boxes of memorabilia. Things like the homemade t-shirts he used to sell at his band’s shows, a few copies of burned CDs, old guitar picks and photos, and then he found the journals. He spent a week reading through his old journals, and Gabe had thought he was spiraling again--but it felt like he was just shedding his skin, just trying to become something not quite new, but something different. He was trying to find a way to find his old heart and keep his knowledge of how the world works. He didn’t want to fall into any more traps. 

He changes into something that wouldn’t embarrass him if he ran into someone he knew and finger combs his hair, glad that the messy bedhead look is still trendy. And then, and he doesn’t even like to do it anymore, he lines his eyes. He used to grin when he did this part of his routine, because it had just been a joke at the time. Back when he was the only lawyer in his firm that blasted pop punk on the way to work and had a framed poster of Blink-182 in his office, he just liked the dramatics. He liked that it made clients talk, especially potential clients. And he _loved_ that it made his rivals underestimate him. 

But then the eyeliner became something of a trademark. And then it twisted into something even more sinister, something like a mask because no one wanted the real Pete. Not really, they wanted the sexy tortured soul of a man he portrayed--because they didn’t really want a tortured soul, they just wanted to look at it. Wanted to objectify him, turn him into something to sell, something his firm would use in power plays. 

The drive into his favorite strip of stores always takes a while, even without LA traffic. His house is far away from the general public, like Gabe can’t be bothered to be among people he thought were less than them. Even though they lived in fucking LA. Pete doesn’t understand Gabe sometimes. 

“Hello,” the storekeeper says when Pete enters the bookstore, “Is there anything I can help you find?”

Pete smiles politely, “Just looking.”

She nods and goes back to whatever task Pete had interrupted. He likes bookstores that carry lesser known authors, places that don’t have multiple bookcases full of James Patterson. For a while he had thought about writing again, but whenever he would sit at the table with a notebook, it felt like the walls were caving in. So he just stopped trying. 

He’s trailing the spines of the books with his fingers when he sees his hand starting to fade into that same pale hand he had seen last night, only there’s no fingerless gloves this time. And he’s handing money off to another person. 

_Just breathe_. 

He watches as the pale hand slowly and shakily takes a coffee. He hears a “thanks,” and it’s clear and close as if he had spoken the word. Only, it’s obviously not his voice. It’s timid almost, polite and a little shy--and there’s a slight an edge to it. 

He’s too focused on the bookstore melting into a coffee shop, that he doesn’t notice himself being shoved into a person and then hot liquid scolding his body. 

“Fuck!” He shouts. 

“Um, sir?” He hears the storekeeper ask.

But then he hears that timid voice ask, “Who said that?”

“What?” Pete asks, looking around, but there’s no one else in the aisle besides him and the storekeeper.

“Hello?” The voice responds. 

“Oh no, oh no, no, no,” Pete murmurs, closing his eyes, “this can’t--”

“What are you saying?”

“Stop it!” Pete yells, knowing he’s drawing attention. He snaps his eyes open and rushes out of the store. He keeps going until he’s away from the store and can lean back against another building, looking out into the street. “Stop, stop, it’s not real, it’s not real, just breathe.”

*

“Would you shut up?” Patrick growls, dabbing at himself with napkins and rushing out of the coffee shop to step into the overcasted city.

His head is swimming and he had been banking on that coffee to chase away the last of his hangover. He hadn’t, however, thought it would have progressed to him hearing voices. 

When the voice silences, Patrick furrows his brows and rounds the coffee shop so he’s not standing on the main street. “Wait, can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” it responds, “you’re in my head.”

Patrick leans back against the brick building because his legs feel like they’re going to give out. “I’m not in your head, I’m in New York,” he says, trying to stay rational. Trying to just stick to the facts. 

“What?”

“New York, you know, lots of buildings and rude people?” Patrick says, sinking down so that he’s sitting in the alley. He stares down at his shoes, trying to find something stationary to focus on and take deep breaths, something that he’s learned to do before shows from Mikey.

“I’m...I’m looking at shoes? Why...I’m not wearing oxfords,” the voice says, sounding more and more freaked. 

Patrick frowns. “I am. Those are my shoes.”

Then Patrick focuses, and he can see past his shoes. Looks past the alley he’s in and can see that he’s looking out onto a busy street with cars going by. The sun is out, casting everything in a warm, hazy glow. “Where are you?”

“LA,” the voice replies. 

“Wow,” Patrick breathes. Ok, so this isn’t his imagination--this is, “You’re a real person, aren’t you?”

The voice chuckles. “Wow, um, thanks I guess.”

Patrick grins despite himself. The voice sounds friendly enough, warm and soothing like honey. “What’s happening?” He breathes incredulously. 

“I don’t know.”

Patrick looks around, watching his environment shift in and out of focus with the environment of his counter partner. And then he frowns when he feels warm in his coat. It’s January and near thirty degrees out, but he feels like he’s sweating. “It’s hot there.”

“Yeah, don’t really get winter weather here.”

Patrick considers this. “So it’s winter there too? What’s the date?”

“Um, the twelfth?”

“So, same here,” Patrick says, then holds out his arm and pushes back his sleeve, “Uh, it’s about noon here.”

“You...You’re in the future!” 

Patrick’s heart races for a moment. In the future? Fuck, that’s not, he’s really not prepared for that responsibility--wait. He grins, shaking his head, “Um, no. I’m in a different timezone.”

The voice giggles and Patrick beams at the noise, he wants to hear it again. “Oh,” he says, still giggling.

Then he hears footsteps and feels a hand on his shoulder. Patrick stupidly turns, even though he knows it’s not really happening to him. He lets his gaze focus back to his sight in LA and sees a police officer staring at him concernedly. “Everything alright? I got a call about a disturbance in Sally's Books?”

“Oh,” the voice says, “I’m sorry...I, uh, I stubbed my toe.”

“That’s believable,” Patrick mutters, then flinches when he feels a pinch on his arm, “ow, fucker!”

The officer doesn’t look like he really believes him, but he also looks young and like he doesn’t really want to deal with a disturbance complaint. “Alright, do you want me to walk you to your car?”

“Oh, no, no,” the voice reassures, and Patrick feels like he’s melting at the cadence of his voice, like he’s had to do this plenty of times before. “I’m much better, just had to walk it off.”

“Well alright,” the officer says, “Be safe.” 

They watch him walk off then the voice says, “Maybe we should talk somewhere else so we don’t look crazy.”

Patrick glances back at his watch and frowns. “I can't, I have to meet up with my band, I’m already running late.”

“Oh,” and Patrick winces at the disappointment. 

“We can talk tonight?” Patrick asks, “I have a show, but I’ll be free after.”

“Sure, what time?”

“Um, I’m just the opener, so I should be done around ten?”

There’s a pause. “Yeah, sure, um, so that’s seven my time? Yeah, that’ll work.”

Patrick gets up, dusting off his pants. He doesn’t really want to say goodbye yet. He’s trying to convince himself it’s just because this is so weird and he wants to explore this more. But, if he’s being honest, this is the first conversation he’s had in months where it doesn’t revolve around his tour or how badly his album is doing.

“So, you’re in a band?”

Patrick sighs sadly, “Yeah, I’m not very popular thou--”

“Doesn’t matter,” he’s interrupted, “That’s still impressive.”

Patrick blushes a little. “What do you--wait, no, really I have to go. I’ll catch up with you later, ok?”

“Yeah,” he says, but then, “Hey! Wait, what’s your name?”

Patrick chuckles, why didn’t they do this before? “Oh, right. I’m Patrick.”

There’s a beat and then, “Pete.”

*

“Jesus, you look like you got run over,” Joe says when Patrick walks in.

He looks down, and yeah, his shirt is stained beyond repair and he’s pretty sure the stage makeup he tried to dab on isn’t doing much to cover his black eye. “I’m fine.”

Andy rolls his eyes behind the drum set. “Did you get into another fight?”

Patrick flinches. “Not really, I didn’t really do anything.”

“That’s what you said when I had to pick you up from the Urgent Care last week,” Mikey drawls. 

Patrick huffs. It’s not that his band is wrong, he does have a bit of an anger issue that usually gets him into fights. Which, sure, that’s an issue in and of itself--it’s worse that he can’t fight to save his life, so he usually just ends up in Mikey’s care with toilet paper shoved up his nose. 

“Bob’s going to be pissed,” Joe says in the same tone that reminds him of kids snickering when someone gets called to the principal’s office. 

“Bob will get over it,” Patrick says, then before anyone else decides to comment on his state, “Look, can we just get this going?”

Mikey fixes him with a stare as Joe just shrugs and hooks his guitar over his shoulder. Patrick shifts in his place, always feeling like a little kid under Mikey’s gaze. “I’m fine,” he mumbles. 

“Sure,” Mikey says softly, hovering a bit longer before going over to his place and picking up his bass. 

As much shit as he gets from the guys, he’s really glad that he has them behind him every night. He knows that this isn’t what they were expecting either. No one says anything about it though. Andy still shows up early to every soundcheck and show, still gets behind the drums every night and gives it his all. Joe is probably one of the most easy going guys that Patrick’s met, he wouldn’t say how disappointed in Patrick he was even if someone held up a gun to his head. And Mikey...well, Mikey is the gravity holding Patrick to this Earth some days. He’s always looking out for him, and has been since Patrick moved out of his mom’s house at seventeen. 

But there’s only a couple more shows left of the tour and Patrick can feel that everyone is counting down the days, and not in the way that they’re just excited to sleep in their own beds. No one has talked about the next album, if Patrick has any ideas or when they should start looking at the calendar for the next tour. No one has said anything about doing this again, there’s sort of this heaviness in the air that feels like a curtain coming down on Patrick’s chance at making it. 

He’s disappointed in the response to his music, but he’s still proud of it. He made an album that he really wanted to make instead of jumping into the familiar grounds of the genre he was brought up in. He ran in the pop punk circles when he was a kid, was a drummer for a bit and sang in a couple other bands--enough for him to become a well known name. Enough that a label jumped on the chance to put out Patrick Stump’s solo album. Yeah, they’re regretting that now for sure. 

But he’s proud of himself. He’s proud of his guys. 

At least that’s what he keeps trying to tell himself. 

“Hey, let’s grab lunch,” Mikey says when they’re done for the day.

Patrick nods, but then he hesitates a little when he sees Joe and Andy exchange a meaningful look. Mikey just puts his hand on Patrick’s shoulder and nudges him forward. “Come on,” he says softly.

Mikey isn’t someone who likes to make a scene, he’s the kind of guy that will text someone to break up with them just to avoid the drama. So it’s a little unsettling when he leads Patrick into an Indian restaurant and gets them a table near the window. 

“What’s going on, Mikeyway?” Patrick asks, leaning back in his chair. 

Mikey opens the menu and looks through it for a bit and Patrick just holds his ground. “What are you getting?”

Patrick huffs and crosses his arms. “Dude.”

Mikey rolls his eyes and sets down the menu. “I was waiting until the tour was over,” he starts, “We only have tonight then the last show in Chicago left.”

“I’m aware,” Patrick mumbles, already knowing where this is going. He’s leaving the fucking band. _He saw what you could do if you were in charge and he’s jumping ship._

“Alicia’s pregnant,” Mikey says, looking down at the table and he suddenly looks so small. Mikey, who _towers_ over Patrick, looks like a little kid and Patrick can’t help but reach out to put his hand over Mikey’s. 

“Hey,” Patrick says softly, “That’s great. Congrats.”

Mikey sort of smiles, but it wobbles a little. And Patrick squeezes his hand, “Hey,” Patrick whispers, then when Mikey’s eyes start to water, “Woah, hey,” he moves over to his side of the booth and puts an arm around his shoulder. 

The waiter comes over with a little notebook and a confused look. 

“Uh, could we get a couple more minutes?” Patrick squeaks, “Maybe some water, please?”

The waiter nods and hurries off, shooting them a concerned look. 

“Mikeyway,” Patrick hums, rubbing his shoulders, “This is a good thing.”

“I’m just fucking terrified,” Mikey whispers, “You know me, Patrick, I just got my shit together and now I’m--”

“You take care of me all the time,” Patrick reminds him, smiling at the waiter who drops off two cups of water then scurries away, “Here, drink this. I’m just like a big baby and you’ve kept me alive all these years.”

Mikey huffs a laugh and sips at his water, nodding a little. “Yeah, yeah, sure.”

Patrick waits until Mikey’s finished all his water before saying, “So, this is you telling me you can’t do the band thing anymore, right?”

Mikey closes his eyes and nods. 

Patrick puts his cup of water in Mikey’s hands and pats his shoulder. 

*

Pete tries his absolute hardest not to stare at the clock all day as he shifts from one room to the other in his house. He even fucking vaccums the house just to have something to do for an hour. And then he goes for a _jog_. 

But eventually seven o’clock starts to creep in and Pete sighs in relief when he hears, “Pete?”

And then the bedroom he was sitting in melts into what looks to be a hotel room. He lets his eyes float over the awful green patterned carpet and the beige walls decorated with horrible artwork. “Hey,” he says softly, then laughs, “Wow, so this is a thing.”

Patrick breathes, “Yeah, seems like it.”

Pete gets up from the bed and paces a little, because Pete’s never been great at sitting still. 

“Oh, is this your house?” Patrick asks. 

“Hm? Oh, yeah,” Pete says looking around slowly so Patrick can see, and he wonders if maybe it’s weird that he’s showing him his and Gabe’s bedroom, “Well, it’s my husband’s.”

“Oh,” Patrick says, and Pete smiles a little at the slight surprised tone that he tries to mask with, “Yeah, of course. I mean, of course you could be married.”

Pete snorts. “Yeah, I--he’s nice. Doctor.”

“Nice,” Patrick says, and then Pete can tell he’s getting up. He watches him walk over to the mini fridge and pull out a bottle of whiskey. 

“Nice,” Pete echos and he hears Patrick chuckle a little, “Yeah, I wonder if you can feel it if I get drunk.”

Pete rolls his eyes, “Don’t turn this into an experiment, man, I really don’t want to be your lab rat or whatever.”

Patrick chuckles and pours a bit of the amber liquid into a plastic cup. “Well, we don’t know much about this. I can hear and see what you’re experiencing. And I felt that pinch earlier, so I guess I can feel what you--”

“Woah!” Pete exclaims, his mind circling back to last night, “Dude, did you get hit last night?”

Patrick sets the bottle down and snorts, “Fuck, yeah I did. Oh...oh, no, did you feel that?”

Pete falls back on his bed and laughs, “Yeah, it sent me on my ass in the middle of a gala for my husband’s work.”

“Oh shit,” Patrick says softly, “I’m so sorry, I was in a bar and--”

“Bar fights, Pattycakes? You sound like trouble,” Pete giggles and he can’t help it. He feels like how he did when he was a kid, so carefree, a little snarky and well, he can imagine that soft timid voice being owned by a blush. 

Patrick hums, like he’s trying to play it off but Pete’s pretty sure he’s blushing. He watches Patrick fiddle with things on the counter then turns back towards the bed. Pete sees a ghost of Patrick’s reflection as he goes to sit on the mattress. 

“Hey,” Pete says softly, “Turn back to the mirror, I only saw you for like a second last night.”

Patrick snorts, “Trust me, you’re not missing out on much.”

Pete rolls his eyes. “Stop that, come one, I’ll go to my mirror. It’ll be like we’re actually talking to each other.”

“Huh,” Patrick says, then Pete watches him walk over to the mirror, and he smiles at the way that Patrick’s shoulders hunch up a bit as he stands in front of it. His eyes trace over his features like he’s unimpressed, like he’s not seeing the same man that Pete is. 

Patrick is the sort of beautiful that makes him feel protective. His eyes, blue at first glance though when he stares longer he sees flecks of green, are wide and would be childlike if there wasn’t a jaded edge to them. His cheeks look like they used to be round and formed pillows when he smiled, but they’re hanging onto his cheekbones instead. And his lips, fuck, Pete goes to reach out for him, but stops because he’s not actually here. 

And something about that makes his heart constrict and he blinks away. “You’re beautiful.”

Patrick snorts. “Sure.”

“No you are--”

“Stop. It’s your turn.”

Right. 

Pete walks into his walk-in closet and turns on the light, keeping his eyes down on the ground until he reaches the mirror. And he’s not sure why he feels a bit shy, he’s been lusted after for most of his adult life. His image hasn’t belonged to him in so long, he doesn’t know why he’s hanging onto it like he--

“You don’t have to,” Patrick says gently, “If it bothers you.”

Pete smiles softly, and that’s why he looks up. He doesn’t stare at himself for too long, it’s too jarring. Instead, he lets his gaze focus on Patrick again and watches him take in Pete’s reflection. How his throat moves under him swallowing, his eyes moving around Pete’s face, his full lips twisting up in a soft smile. He waits for Patrick to say something about his looks. How his hair is sexy, or that he digs the eyeliner, maybe something about his tattoos. But Patrick’s eyes shift back to his and it’s like they’re standing in front of one another, staring at each other in the eyes as Patrick whispers, “There you are.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And when he laughs, fuck, it’s like he laughs with his whole body--like Patrick’s pretty sure even Pete’s toes are involved in this laughter. What’s heartbreaking, what really shakes Patrick about watching Pete laugh, is the way he looks when he’s stopped. As if he’s forgotten and the small, delighted smile that curves his lips makes Patrick’s chest tighten. Because it’s not fair, whatever happened for Pete to forget to laugh like that, is not fair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a moody chapter, but next one is a lot more fun ;)

Patrick grins at Pete and switches over to a can of soda when he finishes his glass of whiskey, for the first time in a long while, he doesn’t really feel like getting drunk. 

“So give me a tour of this house,” Patrick says, cracking the can open. 

He watches Pete’s reflection dim a little and Patrick says, “Oh, I mean, unless--”

“No,” Pete says, and then he’s got this expression on his face as if he’s relaxed and happy with the idea, but it doesn’t quite look right, “No, it’s fine. I just, you know, get bored with it since I’m here all day everyday.”

Patrick frowns. “You don’t work?”

They’ve been keeping the conversation fairly shallow up until this point, well, Patrick didn’t really think talking about someone’s job, or lack of one, would elicit such a response. They had talked about how they’re both from Chicago, just a couple neighborhoods away--which made Pete’s cheeks glow pink and Patrick was a little annoyed that their connection didn’t offer a peek inside his mind. Pete was such an enigma to him. He sat in a walk in closet with a designer shirt on and an impressive looking band on his ring finger, but fuck, did he look sad. 

His eyes lit up when he talked about his certain memories though. They offered some stories from their childhood. Pete was an athlete apparently, he was really good at soccer and could have pursued that if he had wanted but “it just didn’t right” and Patrick could appreciate that. Patrick wasn’t stupid though, he saw how he stumbled over his time in high school, was careful about what he said, but then dove into his time in the music scene. And wow, what a fucking smile he had when he talked about music. 

Pete had a smile that used every muscle in his face but it still looked effortless. And it brought a glow to his cheeks that looked otherwise pallid and stale, like he had been kept inside for too long even though he lived in one of the most sunny places in the country. Patrick just didn’t really understand how someone who looked like he had it all looked so fragile. 

“No, I’m not working right now,” Pete says, and Patrick is about to change the subject when he continues, “I used to be a defense attorney but it got too stressful.”

Patrick can tell there’s more to the story, but he also knows when to not push. “Sounds like it,” he says softly, “But you feel better now?”

Pete looks away from the mirror, making Patrick stare at the beige carpet, like he had felt Patrick’s gaze burning into him. “Yeah,” he says softly.

Patrick doesn’t need to be in Pete’s head to know that’s a lie. But then Pete looks back at the mirror, and that mask of a forged happy expression is back and he asks lightly, “So, music is a thing for you?”

Patrick snorts, “Yeah.”

And then Pete’s leaning forward like they’re really sitting in front of each other talking. It’s jarring at first, to have someone so interested in what Patrick has to say. To listen to his stories about getting into music as a kid, how it helped him feel less alone when he was the nerdy kid at school no one really talked to. He tells him about finding a home in the Chicago music scene and chuckles, “I’m sure we’ve met before and just don’t remember.”

Pete hums. “I’d remember you.”

Patrick blushes and looks away so Pete can’t see his pink cheeks in the reflection. 

“Hey, come on,” Pete chuckles warmly, and he shouldn’t have this pull on Patrick already. They just met. But Patrick tries to appease his nerves by saying that this isn’t normal. Pete is literally connected to him, it’s expected to feel a little...affected by him. So, he looks back at the mirror and feels breathless at the way Pete looks at him. 

So he jumps into more stories to keep his mouth busy and mind distracted enough to not dissect the way Pete’s gaze shifts to Patrick’s mouth as he talks or how he stares at Patrick’s eyes like he’s trying to climb through them. Tries not to watch his face react to his stories, like he’s really listening. He doesn’t interrupt, unless it’s to laugh or ask for clarification. 

And when he laughs, fuck, it’s like he laughs with his whole body--like Patrick’s pretty sure even Pete’s toes are involved in this laughter. What’s heartbreaking, what really shakes Patrick about watching Pete laugh, is the way he looks when he’s stopped. As if he’s forgotten and the small, delighted smile that curves his lips makes Patrick’s chest tighten. Because it’s not fair, whatever happened for Pete to forget to laugh like that, is not _fair_. 

Pete’s eyes widen and Patrick’s about to ask what’s wrong, when he pulls his phone out of his pocket right before Patrick sees the closet door open in the reflection. 

“Pete?” 

Patrick frowns, and watches a tall man with a concerned expression fall behind Pete’s reflection. 

“So this is your husband?” Patrick asks. 

Pete nods with the phone still pressed to his ear, “Yeah, Gabe just got home,” he says, then turns to Gabe and whispers, “I’m talking to my mom.”

Gabe smiles a little then it falls as he looks around, no doubt wondering why Pete is on the phone with his mother in the closet. “Ok, I brought takeout. Maybe wrap it up so it doesn’t get cold?’

“Yeah, sure,” Pete says, then waits until Gabe leaves before saying, “So, I should probably go.”

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees softly, still watching the door that Gabe just disappeared from. He doesn’t even know the guy, but he doesn’t have the greatest feeling about him. Something about the way he looked at Pete rubs him the wrong way. It wasn’t like he gave him a dirty look or anything, but he just looked empty. He gave Pete the same look that Patrick would give a piece of furniture, just something that takes up space. 

_ You shouldn’t even care _ , Patrick reminds himself. Pete’s married and it’s not like they’re even friends really...well, maybe? Patrick feels closer to him than he’s felt to any of his friends, maybe even Mikey. And maybe it’s this weird connection they have that makes him feel so attached to Pete, but there’s also just this way that Pete looks at Patrick. The way he listens to him and asks him questions, talks to him like he’s known Patrick his whole life.

“But, um, can we talk tomorrow?” Pete asks hesitantly, “I can give you that tour?”

Patrick smiles. “I’d love that. I’m going to be sitting in a van all day, so I could use the entertainment.”

“Oh? Where are you guys going next?”

“Back home for the last show,” Patrick says, and he doesn’t think he’s hidden the heaviness of his thoughts about going back home with a failed album because Pete makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. 

Patrick lets his gaze shift back to his own environment, takes in his reflection and how tired he looks. The pull of bags under his eyes and the way his face seems to have lost its color and sunken in. “It’ll be good to be home for a bit.”

“Yeah, get some actual decent pizza instead of that New York shit,” Pete teases. 

And just like that, Patrick is smiling again. 

He’ll deny it if anyone asks, but he likes the way he looks when Pete makes him smile. 

*

“So this is our...billiards room?” Pete says, frowning a bit and leaning against the doorway. “Game room? That sounds a bit childish, I think it’s supposed to be a billiards room.”

Patrick snorts, “You have too many rooms if you’re running out of names for them.”

“Fair point,” Pete sighs, walking in. He looks over the pool table in the middle of the room, laughing a little when it reminds him of the bar fight Patrick got them in, and then lets his eyes dance over the table with the chess board, the television that has every system imaginable set up. He had been pretty excited about this room when he put it together. Made the walls a deep, rich blue and picked out a bunch of luxurious fabrics to dress the overstuffed armchairs and the tall windows. He looks up at the crown molding and grimaces. These were all things that he had put so much time and effort into but they just make him feel hollow now. 

He’s more content to let his gaze relax and melt into where Patrick’s at. He’s looking out the window, watching the highway drift past on the way to Chicago. Patrick has his phone pressed to his ear to give the appearance that he’s on the phone, but Pete’s pretty sure everyone in the van is asleep anyway. He’s definitely heard some snoring at some point. 

“Ok, what else?” Patrick asks softly. 

Pete spent most of the morning walking from room to room, showing Patrick the colors he’s picked and giving little anecdotes for random figurines or pictures dressed in gaudy frames. At first he had fallen into his usual role of showing off his and Gabe’s house just as he would with any house guest, playing the good host. But it was easy to shred that facade and joke around with Patrick about the ugly argyle fabric that Gabe had insisted for his arm chair in his office. 

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with argyle,” Patrick had huffed, “I went through a phase in high school.”

Pete laughed, “Of course you did.”

Pete tried to imagine what Patrick was like in high school. He was probably just as shy, but Pete’s also learning that Patrick is pretty snarky when he wants to be. He imagines Patrick was extra ruthless as a teenager with an attitude. God, and then in an argyle sweater? Pete’s pretty sure that shouldn’t be as sexy as he finds it, and it’s not the first time that he’s glad Patrick can't read his thoughts. 

“Um, so this was the music room I guess,” Pete says softly walking in. He leaves the door open, already feeling a bit breathless as he glances over the bass guitar that’s sitting in the corner of the room collecting dust. Well, figurative dust since the maid comes once a week. 

“You guess?” Patrick hums. 

“Yeah, we don’t really use this room anymore,” Pete explains. He walks slowly around the room, looking at Gabe’s bass that looks brand new still. He had bought a new one before they moved and Pete’s pretty sure he hadn’t even touched it. It looks pristine next to Pete’s old red Precision bass. 

“How come?” Patrick asks. 

And he’s not really pressing, Pete supposes, these are all questions that he’d expect. Pete doesn’t feel guarded around Patrick, there’s something freeing about talking to him. He’s not sure if it’s because of...well, whatever is happening to them, but he doesn’t feel judged at all. For the first time in a long time, he feels accepted and understood. 

Pete sighs and lays on the carpeted floor, staring up at the ceiling. “Well, Gabe doesn’t play because he’s hardly home. And I don’t know, I sort of just gave it up.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything for a moment, and Pete would have thought he left the connection if he didn’t keep seeing cars and highway lines bleed into the ceiling. Then he says, “I know we just met, sorta, but that doesn’t really sound like you.”

Pete snorts, but it sounds twisty in his throat, like it’s confused and wants to come out a sob instead. He runs his hands in his hair and tugs at his hair then rips his hands away when he remembers that Patrick can feel that. “It was hard to do anything that reminded me of my old life before my...accident.”

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Patrick says quietly. 

Which is precisely why he folds his arm behind his head like a pillow and tells him, because he’s the only person who hasn’t poked and prodded that bruise in Pete’s head. And it just tumbles out of his mouth naturally, easier than any conversation where he tried to explain himself to Gabe or soothe his hysterical mother. 

Everyone has always told Pete that he was dramatic. And, for the most part Pete might agree. It was hard to deny the fact when he had been on his knees on stage, licking his bass suggestively or when he piled on the eyeliner before strutting into the courtroom. The actions were dramatic, flashy and attention grabbing so that no one could see how empty and very boring he really was. So, it didn’t really surprise anyone when he lost it in the middle of court.

“It was the biggest case of my career,” he tells Patrick softly, “It was the case that would have guaranteed me partner.”

“But you would have just gotten more big cases, right?” Patrick asks. 

Pete shrugs. “Sure, but that was sort of the point.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything to that, so Pete goes on with the story. The weeks leading up to the case had Pete hunched over his desk with cups of coffee as he leafed through his notes and case briefs. And nights had him staying up with cigarettes between his fingers as ash drifted onto witness statements and the initial police reports. He only ate whatever he could microwave under a couple minutes and his sleep schedule was practically nonexistent. 

“The worst part,” Pete says, looking back at it, “was that no one thought anything of it. Gabe was  _ proud  _ of me.”

Pete remembers the way everyone had told him to “keep up the good work” or “looking good, Wentz.” And Pete thought he had finally won them all over, that he wasn’t just a joke to the firm anymore. He was being tested, and Pete was adamant about passing it. 

“Pete,” Patrick says softly. 

Pete hums, like he doesn’t really have much to say, but then he tells him about the morning of the trial. How he kept throwing up long after his stomach was empty. How he ran the water in the courthouse bathroom sinks so no one could hear him sobbing in the stalls. His hands were shaking and he hadn’t been taking his meds because they made his head swimmy and he thought it made him dull. And dull defense attorneys never won a jury over. 

“And then, I’m still not sure what really happened,” Pete says quietly, as if he wasn’t alone in his huge house. Or maybe he thought if he said it quietly, he wouldn’t believe the words. “I was cross-examining the prosecutor's witness and I just remember it was like my ears were filling with water and I couldn’t hear her talking.”

He remembers the way it seemed like he was underwater and everyone in court was above the surface trying to talk to him. He could hear his heart in his ears though, a terrifying erratic beat that he couldn’t keep count of and he couldn’t ignore it anymore than he could ignore the sweat rolling down his back and sticking his overpriced button down to his back. 

“Apparently I kept yelling at her to speak up,” Pete tells Patrick, “And I was shouting louder and louder. I took my jacket off and I was just covered in sweat. I remember the bailiff trying to restrain me, and then it’s just pockets of little things I remember. Like the way the judge’s lipstick was clumped between her lips or the prosecutor’s heavy earthy cologne when they tried to help me stand.”

“Pete,” Patrick whispers again. 

Pete blinks a few times to clear out the images trying to bring him back to the courtroom. Instead he focuses on Patrick looking at his hands. He traces over his short nails, his cuticles damaged from too many broken guitar strings or nerves. 

“Gabe admitted me to the hospital,” Pete continues, “And then he thought that I should take a break.”

“How long ago did this happen?”

“Few years now,” Pete says softly. 

Patrick’s nail worries at his thumb and Pete smiles.

Definitely nerves. 

*

Walking into his condo after months of being on the road should be orgasmic, but Patrick just sags against the door and tries not to cry. He feels so fucking defeated that he wants to hide from his sofa. 

But he peels himself from the door and leaves his suitcase by the door as he makes his way to the kitchen. One of the perks about being home is that he has access to his bar, and he definitely has better whiskey than the well whiskey he’s had to drink at the cheap motels they stayed in. 

Pete had kept Patrick entertained all the way to Chicago with stories and they even watched  _ Ghostbusters _ . It had taken them a few stumbling conversations to shake off Pete’s story in the music room, and it took Patrick saying Dan Ackaroyd’s lines for Pete to start laughing again. 

“Did you even sleep?” Mikey had asked when they climbed out of the van. 

Patrick looked at him sheepishly. 

Mikey rolled his eyes and nudged him in the direction of his car. “Come on, let me drive you home. I don’t want you falling asleep on the L.”

Patrick had thought he was pretty slick with his phone idea, but Mikey kept looking at him funny like he knew Patrick had been talking to himself on the van. The thing about Mikey though, is that he doesn’t pry until he thinks it’s absolutely necessary. Which is probably why their friendship has survived as long as it has. 

“Sleep tonight, Trick,” Mikey had said when they pulled up to his condo, “Don’t drink. Don’t stay up on Garage Band, go to bed and sleep. No, wait”--he said wrinkling his nose-- “Shower, then go to bed.”

“Fuck you,” Patrick laughed, but he ruffled Mikey’s hair then got out of the car. 

Patrick sips at his drink and goes to the living room to put on a record. Which makes him smile because, God, Pete has awful taste. 

“Metallica is like God tier, I don’t know what you’ve been smoking,” Pete had told him when they started discussing their favorite artists somewhere in Ohio. 

He wants to...visit Pete? He’s not really sure what it’s called, but having Pete in his head for the eleven hour trip to Chicago hadn’t left him satiated. If anything, it made him want more Pete time. More laughter. More silly stories of him when he was in a band. More watching movies together. More feeling Pete rub his arm nervously and then feeling it on his own arm, as if Pete was caressing him. 

God he was so attached to this guy and it wasn’t fair because he couldn’t have him. 

Story of Patrick’s fucking life. 

He always did have a thing for guys that he couldn’t have. There was that horribly awkward time period when he was in love with Mikey. Patrick followed him around to all the shows he went to, pretending he gave a damn about guys dressed in too much black who didn’t know how to play their instruments. And then there had been that drunken night where Mikey took Patrick home since he didn’t trust him to get home on his own. There had been so many perceived signs that Mikey was into Patrick, though that was probably just the whiskey sodas talking to him. So when he pulled Mikey in for a kiss, Mikey pulled away quickly and stared at Patrick with wide eyes. Their friendship is obviously fine--better in fact, but the way that Mikey looked at him that night still pops up in his head sometimes and he still feels that hot wave of embarrassment wash over him. 

Mikey had been sweet about it. Told him that if he liked guys, he’d totally date Patrick. And then he said something about Patrick only wanting Mikey because Mikey treated Patrick like he was meant to be treated, and that was something that’s always stuck with Patrick. Because, yeah, he’s had shit self esteem since he had the capacity to consider himself and realize he didn’t like what he saw in the mirror. 

He didn’t really take Mikey’s advice to talk nicer to himself and stop chasing boys to fix that brokenness in himself. No, instead Patrick would take anyone home that would let him and then drink himself stupid when that always turned into a disaster. 

Patrick pours himself another drink. 

So, yeah, falling for a married guy on the other side of the country isn’t really all that surprising. 

He doesn’t end up sleeping like Mikey insisted. He spends a lot of time on Garage Band until he’s drank too much for anything to make sense and then he just sprawls out on the couch listening to Saves the Day.

All of which he is deeply regretting the next morning when he goes with the guys to the venue that they’re playing tonight. 

“Jesus, I thought I told you to sleep,” Mikey grumbles when Patrick walks into the small club. 

“I thought about it,” Patrick grins. 

“You smell like a distillery,” Mikey says disapprovingly. 

Patrick shrugs and walks to where Andy and Joe are gathered with his manager, Bob, but they’re talking logistic stuff that’s never held Patrick’s interest. He walks around the club instead, walking up on the stage and getting a feel of it. He’s played so many different types of venues. When he was a kid, he always got into VFW halls with his band, playing on the floor while kids went wild and bumped into them. Where he could get swallowed into the crowd and have them scream the lyrics in his ears. Those were the fun days, back before Patrick paid attention to sales or how many tickets they could sell. Then they moved up to bigger stages and the kids were separated from him by security or barricades and it felt weird. It felt like he wasn’t even playing to them anymore, like his music was just getting lost in the world or something. 

This stage feels something in between. It’s been fun playing smaller venues, but it’s still not the same. Maybe it’s because the music isn’t what they all were expecting.  _ He’s  _ not what they were expecting and he’s still trying to wrap his head around that. He’s seen his face and his name in magazines, all over the internet--so how could they not fucking know him? It makes him wonder if he even knows himself. 

“Trick!” Joe calls with a grin, “How’s the view from up there?”

Patrick looks over at him and holds up a thumbs up, then looks out to where the audience will be. And then he sees it. 

The back wall is made of nothing but mirrors and Patrick can see himself clearly in them.

And if he stares long enough, he can make himself believe that he can see Pete in them too. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Great, so you watch me tonight,” Patrick says, hoping it’s coming off playful and nonchalant, but he’s pretty sure Pete can hear the edge to that.
> 
> “Sure, Lunchbox,” Pete says, shifting and laying out on the couch. Patrick grins at Pete's avocado socks--he’s so fucking LA it’s not even funny. 
> 
> “That doesn’t even make sense,” Patrick chuckles, leaving his hair alone since this is probably as good as it’s going to get. 
> 
> “We don’t make sense,” Pete quips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments, kudos, bookmarks, and time spent reading so far <3

“Want to see a concert tonight?”

Patrick grins when he sees Pete drop the remote he was carrying to the couch. 

“Fuck, some warning would be nice,” Pete grumbles, sitting down and facing the blank television. 

Patrick lets his gaze stay in Pete’s world for a moment, before shifting back to the mirror. He fiddles with his bow-tie then starts messing with his hair. “No husband tonight?” 

“Night shift,” Pete says tonelessly. 

“Great, so you watch me tonight,” Patrick says, hoping it’s coming off playful and nonchalant, but he’s pretty sure Pete can hear the edge to that.

“Sure, Lunchbox,” Pete says, shifting and laying out on the couch. Patrick grins at Pete's avocado socks--he’s so fucking LA it’s not even funny. 

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Patrick chuckles, leaving his hair alone since this is probably as good as it’s going to get. 

“We don’t make sense,” Pete quips. 

Patrick rolls his eyes and pulls his gloves off the counter and slips them on. 

“Oh, yeah, can’t forget those,” Pete teases. 

“If you’re going to make fun then you can just leave,” Patrick grumbles, debating about pulling the gloves off. Maybe they are a bit much. 

“No, no, I’m just teasing you,” Pete says, and it sounds like there’s a laugh bubbling in his throat, “Leave them. I like them.”

Patrick wants to say something witty back, maybe throw out a snarky remark, but he just blushes and feels the warming blanket of validation covering him. He’s realized that Pete hasn’t listened to any of his music, they haven’t traded last names so it’s not like he could look him up. And the idea of performing in front of him now, of performing with him in his head has got him a little spooked. 

Which is a bit silly since this is what he does. This is  _ all _ he does, is perform. This is the only thing he has left and he has to hang onto it with a death grip because he can feel it slipping out of his fingers. And if he loses this, then who the fuck is he anymore?

Because it’s not even that he’s spent most of his formative years in music, it’s not that he’s never worked a day in his life that hasn’t been on stage, not even that he doesn’t have any inclination to want to do anything. It’s that, fuck, that Patrick wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes and freaks the fuck out. That he’ll walk past a mirror and then jump because he doesn’t even know who that is in the mirror anymore. That he’s twenty-six and he doesn’t feel anymore of an adult than he did when he was sixteen. He still feels like he’s the scared, angry teenager from Chicago who is afraid to speak up because he doesn’t think anyone is going to listen anyway. 

And it’s not about being heard some days. Some days he doesn’t have anything he wants to say to anyone, he just wants to know what the fuck he’s supposed to be doing. If this music thing is really what he’s meant to do or if he’s just kicking, bending, and pulling at it to make it fit into his life when it doesn’t belong there anymore. Maybe he’s holding onto it like a friend he’s grown apart from, trying to understand why there’s friction without talking it out. Scared that it’ll abandon him and he’ll be alone in his head again. 

What’s the worst in all this is that everyone, from when he was a kid to just last Thursday when he was on the phone with his mom, has told him that he has so much potential. That he’s someone special. He’s meant to do all these great things and Patrick just wants to laugh in all their faces and tell them that he doesn’t fucking see it. That maybe he has to get his glasses prescription changed because he doesn’t know how he started out as the kid that all his peers and family admired to become this overgrown child pretending to be an adult with a drinking problem. 

“Trick?” Pete says softly.

Patrick looks up and smiles in the reflection, trying hard not to grimace at how fake it looks, “I’m good, just pre-show jitters.”

Patrick’s sure Pete was about to argue, but the door behind him opens and Mikey is standing there with a raised eyebrow. “Who are you talking to?”

Patrick shakes his head and turns to him. “No one.”

“Who’s that?” Pete asks, “He’s hot.”

“Also very straight,” Patrick mumbles. 

“Sorry?” Mikey asks. 

“Doubt it,” Pete says, “Seriously, I have a talent for this. That guy has definitely sucked--”

“Is it time to go?” Patrick asks loudly so that he can drown out Pete's laughs. 

Mikey nods slowly. “Yeah, have you been drinking again?” He asks, staring at the empty glass on the table where Patrick was getting ready. 

Patrick chooses not to answer, just shrugs on his jacket and walks past him. 

He can see Pete’s living room bleed into the crowd he walks around as he heads to the stage. He waits for Mikey and Joe to join Andy on stage, before he takes his guitar from the tech and walks up on it as well. 

“Wow,” Pete breathes, no doubt being taken by the stage lights burning into Patrick’s eyes, then looking out to the crowd. 

Patrick deliberately ignores the mirrors at first and just jumps into “Explosion” and maybe he’s showing off a little since Pete is listening in, but he really can’t help it. When he was with his old band, he never was this over the top. Mikey says it’s because he’s trying to prove something, that he’s trying to tell himself and the media that he doesn’t need a band--that they were just holding him back from what he wanted to do anyway. This is who he really is, this is the performer he was always meant to be. 

Only it sounds sad when it comes out of Mikey’s mouth. 

“Fuck, you can sing, man,” Pete breathes when Pete finishes the song and he grins down at his shoes. 

“Thanks,” Patrick says, and smiles wider when he realizes the audience probably thought he was talking to them. He clears his throat and says, “So listen, this is our last stop of the tour”--he pauses so the cheers can quiet down-- “Yeah, we know you’re sick of us”. Mikey shoots him a look while there’s a few awkward laughs in the crowd. 

The thing he hears the loudest is Pete’s silence. 

“Anyway,” Patrick says, clearing his throat, “This next song is about my love for this fucking city,” and then he glances at Joe to start the song. 

“Pattycakes, you sap,” Pete teases and Patrick rolls his eyes before starting to sing instead of saying something stupid back. 

He’s about halfway through the song when he looks past the audience and into the mirrors that coat the back wall. 

He grins a little, because, yeah, he knows he looks good. Only a song and a half in and he’s already sweating and his hair is starting to stick to his face. 

“Fuck,” Pete breathes. 

And if Patrick’s hips are a little more enthusiastic after that, Patrick pretends he doesn't notice. 

*

Pete hasn’t been to a concert since he started practicing law. He never really had the time, and some nights he would put on a livestream or a live taping of an album and just pretend, but it was never the same. 

And Pete hasn’t been on a stage since college, since Pre-Law when he still had his band. Patrick bringing him along on stage is the biggest gift that Pete’s gotten in a long time. Just to see the stage lights, hear the echoes of the crowd, hear them singing back the lyrics. And it isn't Pete’s band, isn't his music, but somehow it is because it's coming from Patrick. Pete sits up on his knees, leaning in like he can reach out and touch the mic in front of Patrick. Pretending that the leather clad glove is really his, and in some sense it is. However this worked, whatever the reason, Pete’s thankful for this. 

Because maybe that’s the reason this is happening to them. Maybe they’re both so empty that they need the two of them put together to even create a fully functional human being. 

And then in the middle of this epiphany, his breath gets caught in his throat because he’s looking at Patrick. Or, his reflection, but there he is, right in front of him on stage. Patrick is fucking gorgeous. And not in the glossy magazine way that he sees in LA. He’s sweaty, his shirt is cheap and sticking to his chest, his lips are slick and cheeks rosy. He dances like he's watched too much TRL back in the day, but Pete finds it endearing and fucking sexy. He’s got this way of getting so into his music, it’s like he’s fucking in. Pete feels winded just watching him finish the song. 

“I think you just impregnated the crowd,” Pete teases, pressing the couch pillow over his crotch as if Patrick could see he’s hard. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Patrick giggles, looking down at his shoes again, but Pete laughs when his voice gets carried by the mic. 

“Shouldn’t talk to yourself on stage,” Pete whispers, “They might think you’re crazy like me.”

“You’re not crazy,” Patrick says sharply, then he’s looking at that guy from the dressing room. And this guy is looking at Patrick like he wants to wrap him in a blanket somewhere safe and punch him in the face at the same time. It’s sort of a weird expression, but Patrick must get it a lot because he just transitions into the next song without a hiccup. 

Pete thinks his heart is starting to slow down when Patrick pulls up a Cajon and sits on it with his legs spread. Pete has to bite his lip to stop the  _ fuck me _ that’s trying to escape him and then he fucking  _ groans _ when Patrick takes off his leather jacket and he’s just wearing his sweat dampened shirt. He grins at the mirror, and takes his time undoing the buttons at the cuffs and rolling them up to his elbows. 

Apparently Pete’s been a little...deprived. And really, who could blame him? Living in a loveless marriage doesn’t really spice things up in the bedroom or anything and he’s a little embarrassed when he thinks about how long it’s been since he and Gabe had sex. And not even good sex. He doesn’t think they’ve had good sex in years if he’s being honest. 

And he doesn’t really know the rules with this connection thing he’s got with Patrick, but he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t jerk off while they're still in each other’s heads. That’d probably be weird. Probably weirder than jerking off to Patrick, who he doesn’t even...it really doesn’t matter because Pete isn’t going to screw this up. This one good thing he has going right now, he’s not going to screw that up. 

So he lays back on the couch and watches Patrick perform like it’s the last time he ever will. But he doesn’t really know Patrick that much, maybe this is always how he performs. Maybe he really does love music so much that it makes him look like he’s both in pain and pleasure at the same time. 

Patrick keeps Pete with him all the way through the show, whispering things away from the mic every now and then when Pete offers up commentary. He tries to get Patrick to mess up every now and then by singing another song loudly and off key, grinning when Patrick laughs his way through the end of a song. It’s probably the most alive that Pete’s seen Patrick, that he’s heard and felt Patrick. He’s not sure if the buzzing under his skin is from him watching Patrick or from Patrick performing. 

After the show, Patrick stumbles back into the dressing room with the rest of the band and Pete watches them all pat each other on the shoulders and the guy that Patrick kept staring at pulls Patrick into a hug. “Going to miss this,” he whispers against his ear. 

And it’s so intimate, so raw and emotional that Pete thinks Patrick should push him out. That Pete should leave, but he can’t. Maybe it’s because he’s so starved for affection, to be touched or whispered softly to like that. So, he closes his eyes and lets himself be Patrick for just a moment. Relishes in the feeling of being hugged by someone who genuinely cares. 

Patrick nuzzles against the guy’s jaw and Pete breathes in the woodsy smell from his skin, lets it wash over him and he wants to cry. He hasn’t been this close to anyone in so long. Hasn’t felt this warm.

Mikey steps back and rubs at his eyes and smiles shyly. “I’ll still be around, you know that.”

“He’s a good friend, Trick,” Pete says softly. 

“I know,” Patrick replies quietly, and Pete wonders who he’s answering. 

*

They all go out for drinks after since it’s the last show. 

Andy is sipping ginger ale talking about how he can’t wait to go back home to LA and Patrick wants to roll his eyes and tell him that his home is here in Chicago. He can’t really be mad at Andy though, it’s like being angry at a kitten. And Joe moved up to New York last fall and Patrick is still trying to understand his reasoning for that.

Then, of course, Mikey is going back to Jersey tonight so he can be home as soon as possible. Patrick’s glad that Mikey is more smiley when he talks about his impending fatherhood instead of looking like he’s made of glass. He knows that Mikey is still scared, but the kid is fucking smart as hell and he’s got a really good support system. Hell, Gerard is going to treat that baby like gold, so Patrick’s not really worried. 

What he is worried about is that he’s going to be the only one left in Chicago and it feels really fucking weird for them all to be leaving him. But he doesn’t bring any of this up while they’re laughing over tour horror stories or smiling dreamily at being able to sleep in their own beds soon, Patrick just wants them all happy. He’s glad he’s had them for this tour, that he got this group of friends together so it wasn’t so daunting when he went out there with his own music. 

The thing is that Patrick spent a lot of his childhood alone. Of his siblings, he was the most introverted and preferred to stay in his room with whatever instrument he was working on mastering that day. And then when fall rolled around and he had to head into school everyday, he just made sure to stay out of everyone’s way. He likes to tell himself that he was cool with it, that his attitude was because he didn’t  _ need _ anyone to talk to, but the more he throws his glass back, the more he remembers how scared he was to let anyone in. Because after they’d get close, they’d see what an insecure mess he really was and they’d bolt. 

It’s not the same, he tries to remind himself. The band isn’t really leaving  _ him _ , the tour is just over and everyone is going home. But it doesn’t fucking feel like it. 

“Come outside with me while I smoke,” Mikey says, tugging on Patrick’s sleeve. 

“Thought you were trying to quit,” Joe teases and Mikey flicks him off before making his way out the bar. 

Patrick follows and scowls when Mikey lights up. “I really did think you were quitting.”

“Yeah, I will before the baby comes,” Mikey promises. 

Patrick shrugs and leans back against the bricked bar. “What’s up?”

“What was going on tonight?” Mikey asks, “You know, with the side commentary to yourself?”

Patrick blushes and he looks away, wondering what the hell he could possibly say to Mikey that would make any sense. He doesn’t have secrets from Mikey, mostly because Mikey can see right through him, but he likes to think he shares because he’s a good friend. 

“I don’t know,” Patrick sighs, “I think the end of the tour just got to me, you know? And there’s nothing really in sight.”

Patrick can feel Mikey’s frown dragging him down into the cement they’re standing on. “Trick--”

“No,” Patrick huffs, turning back to him, “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Patrick takes in Mikey’s worn expression, the bags under his eyes and the way his mouth is pressed into a thin line. He looks like the road has beat him to hell and back and Patrick has been able to tell that this kind of life hasn’t been fulfilling to him anymore. Maybe when they were kids, back when Mikey was just fucking around in bands with his brother because it was something fun. But as soon as he got involved with Patrick and his project, suddenly there was pressure because Patrick had something to prove. And, fuck, Mikey is such a good friend. So fucking good to have put up with his dramatics and get up on stage every night and give it his all even when he just wanted to be at home with his wife. 

So, he's not going to dwell on it. At least to Mikey. He’s going to smile at him and have another drink with him before Mikey takes a cab to the airport and goes back home where he belongs. It’s been fun, really fucking fun to share a stage with his best friend. 

Patrick takes Mikey’s cigarette and takes a drag before coughing and wrinkling his nose. “This is disgusting, why do you guys like this?”

Mikey laughs at him and leans back against the bar, watching fondly as Patrick drops the cigarette and puts it out with his boot. 

“That’s seriously not worth the lung cancer,” Patrick says, still coughing a bit. 

Mikey pats him on the back and says. “I’m going to miss you too.”

Patrick buys a round of shots and does Andy’s for him, giving him a wink which just makes Andy shake his head with a grin. Mikey salutes them and then gives Patrick a look before turning and walking out the bar to catch his cab. 

Andy pats Patrick’s shoulder and asks, “Need a lift home?”

Patrick shakes his head and goes to the bar. 

Here’s what he remembers. He knows that Joe did another shot with him and laughed when Patrick hiccuped afterwards like he was some freshman having their first beer. He remembers Andy getting the two of them water and Patrick knows that he certainly did not drink his, but he blew the wrapper off his straw at Joe which led to a french fry fight. Patrick doesn’t remember who got the fries. 

When it gets fuzzy is when Andy tries to talk Patrick into getting into the car with him and Joe so that he could take Patrick home and Patrick making a scene. He’s pretty sure at one point Andy lifted him and even got him buckled into the car. 

Which is why he’s really confused as to how he’s sitting in a bar again. The only logical explanation is that Andy got him home and then Patrick went back out. Which is pretty fucking sad. Drunk and sitting alone at a dive bar in a part of Chicago that even he’s not really familiar with is pretty fucking sad. Patrick is pretty fucking sad. 

*

When Pete gets up in the middle of the night to get a glass of water, he nearly falls on his ass in the kitchen. 

“Jesus,” he whispers, holding his hand to his head. 

He hears a giggle. 

“Trick?” Pete asks, and when he’s answered by another giggle, “Wow, you’re really drunk.”

Patrick must have had his eyes closed, because now Pete can see Patrick is in a dimly lit bar. He’s got an empty shot glass in front of him and another cocktail glass next to it that’s still halfway full. 

“Not that drunk,” Patrick mumbles, “You’re the one who fell.”

“Yeah, because my head is spinning,” Pete says, leaning back against the wall. “Patrick, you need to go home.”

“You need to go home,” Patrick fires back. 

He’s getting some strange looks pointed his way and Pete sighs. Not good. No one likes a crazy drunk in the corner talking to themselves. “Where’s Mikey?”

“Why are you so obsessed with Mikey?”

Pete digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “He can take you home. What are you doing?”

“S’the last show,” Patrick says softly. And Pete drops his hands and frowns, because Patrick sounds really fucking sad and he knows from experience that sad and alcohol is not a good mix. 

“You’ll play again,” he says gently.

“No, Mikey is going to be a dad,” Patrick says sadly, “Record was shit. The label wants nothing to do with me. I’m a fucking--”

“Babe, I saw you tonight,” Pete interrupts softly, “You’re amazing. You’re supposed to be on stage. You’re supposed to be making music.”

Pete winces at the shuddering breath that Patrick takes and he sees Patrick bring his hands up to cover his face, hears the soft sobs wrecking through his body. 

“Patrick,” Pete says slowly, “Call Mikey so he can take you home.”

“S’on a plane,” Patrick slurs, “home already.”

Pete rubs at his jaw. “Ok, call a cab. You need to go home.”

“Don’t want to be there,” Patrick sniffles. 

“Why?”

“Tired of being alone,” Patrick says, his voice breaking. 

Pete’s heart breaks at Patrick’s small voice. Because he fucking gets it. He knows what it’s like to feel that he’s got no one watching his back. He understands feeling empty in your own home, how it can feel like you’re going to lose your mind within those walls. 

Pete wraps his arms around himself and squeezes tight, closing his eyes when Patrick sobs again. He knows he can feel it, and he hates that he’s not there with Patrick right now. It’s fucking cruel that Pete can’t be there to hug him for real and take him home. Because, fuck, if he could, he’d wrap him up in the softest blanket he could find and lay with him on the couch. They wouldn’t get up until they watched all the John Hughes movies and Patrick had a proper cry. And Pete would be there to rub his back and tell him that things will get better. And then they’d order takeout, because Pete would never subject him to his cooking, and things  _ would _ get better because they wouldn’t be alone anymore. 

Pete feels a soft squeeze back and he smiles, “You’re not alone, Trick. You have me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this fic has a happy ending and it's not just going to be about these boys being sad.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You should come to Chicago,” Patrick says when they’ve made it out of the aquarium. 
> 
> He’s walking towards Grant Park when Pete mumbles, “I can’t.”
> 
> Patrick frowns. “Why not?”
> 
> “Patrick,” Pete sighs.
> 
> “You can tell Gabe you’re coming to see your parents.”
> 
> “They live in LA now too,” Pete says quietly. 
> 
> Patrick sinks onto a bench and leans back. “Not that I don’t love whatever this is,” he says quietly, “But I sorta want to actually hang out with you.”

Pete’s not sure it’ll work, but he drinks a _shit ton_ of water the next morning, hoping it’ll combat whatever hangover Patrick’s going to have when he wakes up. 

“Jesus, are you ok?” Gabe asks, eyeing him from the kitchen table. 

Pete pauses with his glass of water at his lips. “What?”

“You’ve been drinking water like a damn camel,” Gabe says. 

Pete rolls his eyes. “You know, camels can go days without drinking water, that’s why they have--”

“I _know_ that, Pete,” Gabe sighs, “I’m just...are you ok?”

“I’m just drinking water,” Pete deadpans, why the fuck is _this_ something he has to nitpick? “I thought you doctors liked it when we drink water.”

Gabe rolls his eyes and goes back to his phone, scrolling a bit before setting it down with a dramatic sigh. “It’s not just that. It’s you fainting at the gala--”

“I didn’t faint,” Pete protests. 

“Whatever, you were knocked to the ground and no one touched you. What would you call that?”

“I tripped?”

Gabe doesn’t look like he’s buying it. “And then you’re in your closet, sitting in front of the mirror on the phone with your mother...which you lied about because I talked to her--”

“She’s _my_ mom!” Pete yells, slamming his glass down and then he jumps when it shatters. 

Gabe bolts from his seat and pulls Pete away from the glass. He picks him up and sets him on the kitchen counter before grabbing some paper towels and pressing it to the cut that Pete’s got on his palm. “Hold that there, while I get the first aid.”

“It’s fine,” Pete murmurs, slightly taken back from Gabe picking him up like he’s next to nothing. It was something that always made his heart flip, something that Gabe used to do a lot when they were younger. His favorite being that time when Gabe lifted him up on the bathroom sink in that disgusting club bathroom and fucked him against the mirror. 

“I know it is,” Gabe says quietly, “But I still want to clean and bandage it up.”

Pete looks from his hand, the paper towel tinging red, to Gabe’s expression. Pete tilts his head to catch Gabe’s eyes and it’s like something shatters in Gabe. His long, talented fingers slide into Pete’s hair and then his lips are crushed against Gabe’s. Pete moans and he’s not even embarrassed by it because it’s been so long since Gabe has kissed him like this. Like he’s actually his husband, like he’s someone desirable and not just an obligation. 

Pete wraps his legs around Gabe’s hips and pulls him flushed against him and Gabe lets out a shaky breath, trailing his lips down Pete’s jaw and pressing a soft kiss under his ear. “I miss you,” he whispers. 

And it’s utterly heartbreaking. 

Because it would be one thing if Gabe was just a heartless robot that didn’t really care about Pete. It would be so easy to be detached from him if Gabe’s actions were coming from the heart and he really was only interested in his image, in how Pete looks next to him. But the way Gabe is kissing him, the way he’s whispering to him, caressing him--it’s all too familiar and like _his_ Gabe. The one he fell in love with and not this doctor that gives Pete an allowance to decorate their house and buy Pete hobbies to entertain himself with. 

This Gabe _misses_ him. 

“Need you,” Pete whispers back, pulling at Gabe’s shirt. 

Pete gets a few buttons before Gabe’s fingers wrap around Pete’s hand and he pulls away. “Pete, I can’t right now. I need to get to the hospital,” he breathes. 

“Go in late,” Pete whines, struggling to get another button undone. 

Gabe rubs his nose against Pete’s and then kisses the tip of it. “Let me get the first aid kit,” he says, pulling Pete’s hand away from his shirt and walking away. 

Pete stares at the paper towel that’s more red than white now and frowns. It hurts, sure, but the rejection stings worse. 

Gabe comes back with the red bag that he keeps under the bathroom sink and gets to work. Pete won’t meet his eyes, he doesn’t want to see Doctor Gabe back, he wants to hang onto the few moments he got with the man he fell in love with. And he wonders when he’ll get him back. 

“I know you’re going through something,” Gabe whispers, wiping Pete’s cut with alcohol pads. 

Pete winces a little at the sting and opens his mouth to lie but Gabe cuts him off, “I just want you to tell me when things start getting bad again. I know...I blame myself for what happened last time.”

Pete looks up to meet his eyes and his Gabe is standing there with glassy eyes. Pete reaches up with his good hand and cups his cheek. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m a fucking doctor, Pete,” Gabe hisses, “I’m a doctor and I didn’t see that you were hurting yourself.”

“I was stressed,” Pete says, “Lawyers get stressed.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t just...Pete, you’re sick and--”

“What?” Pete squeaks, “What do you mean I’m _sick_?”

Pete can see the way Gabe’s expression hardens up and he slips Doctor-Mode, “You’re Bipolar, you can’t--”

“I can do whatever the fuck I want,” Pete says, snatching his hand away.

Gabe sighs, “Pete,” like he’s really fucking tired or something. 

Pete hops down from the counter and starts walking out of the kitchen. 

“You know what--”

Pete whips around. “I can’t believe that you, a fucking doctor, would tell me that my _illness_ keeps me from doing any profession--”

“It was too stressful of a job and it triggered--”

“--because I’m fucking _sick_ as you so delicately put it!” Pete yells, “I was under a lot of pressure. It could have happened to anyone. How dare you try to belittle--”

“--dare I? I’m trying to take care--”

“I never asked you too!” Pete yells, slamming his hand on the wall. “You’re not trying to take care of me, you’re trying to _fix_ me because it’s fucking hard for you.”

Gabe’s jaw clenches and he won’t meet Pete’s eye. 

“Our vows said ‘for better or worse’,” Pete hisses, then laughs without humor, “Or perhaps you prefer ‘in sickness or health’, but either fucking way you promised that you would stand by me. That you would love me.”

“I do love you,” Gabe says, eyes snapping back to Pete, “How could you--”

“Because it doesn’t feel like it,” Pete says, hating that his voice cracks.

Gabe stares at him like Pete has three heads, like he’s fucking shocked. As if he had no idea that Pete even had an inkling of doubt of his love. Like, how fucking dare he doubt Gabe?

“I have to go,” Gabe says finally, walking back into the kitchen. 

Pete refuses to cry while Gabe is still here. He’s given enough of himself today. He listens to Gabe gather his things and then turns his head when Gabe walks towards him to kiss him goodbye. Gabe stands there and whispers, “Fine,” then walks out the door. 

*

“Wait, no, get that one! Yeah, the one with all the sprinkles!” Pete exclaims. 

Patrick rolls his eyes but orders the donut with the sprinkles and an extra large coffee. 

They haven’t really talked about the other night. Waking up that morning had been Hell. He’d had horrible hangovers before, sure, but that one was particularly awful. Probably because his headache had been a result of copious amounts of alcohol and embarrassing tears. 

When he had finally rolled out of bed, Pete checked in with a soft, “How are you feeling?”

Patrick still doesn’t remember everything that had happened that night, but he had flashbacks that made his cheeks red from how emotional he had gotten. He remembers Pete hugging him, and he thinks that’s really the only thing he wants to remember anyway. 

“How’d I get home?” He had asked. 

“I called the bar you were at and had them get you a cab,” Pete said, then before Patrick had the chance to feel awkward about it, he said, “I drank a shit ton of water. Did it help?”

“Um...I don’t think it works that way,” Patrick had chuckled, dragging himself to his kitchen because, yeah, water sounded like a must. 

Which sparked them into testing the constraints of their bond. Pete thought it was hilarious to smell the inside of his gym bag and listen to Patrick gag, but Patrick got his retaliation by eating chicken vindaloo, which he always orders so spicy that even the cooks complain. 

Pete had been coughing and choking down milk when he said, “Ok, let’s play nice from now on.”

Patrick takes a bite of his donut and grins when Pete moans obscenely. He walks out of the coffee shop to avoid any stares before he says, “You know you could just get your own donut.”

“Yeah, and then Gabe will give me a lecture about how sugar is bad for my anxiety.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything. He’s sure that Gabe isn’t _evil_ , Pete had to have married him for a reason, but he really doesn’t like the guy. Patrick tries to not really talk about him, feeling through their bond how Pete tenses up and grows quiet. Instead, he’s been keeping Pete busy by walking through Chicago.

He’s taken him to all of his favorite places. They went to the record store he used to visit when he was a teenager and Pete cackled, saying, “My buddy used to work here.” And Patrick was reminded how close they had been all those years ago. It’s hard not to wonder how things may have ended up if they had met earlier. Maybe Pete would still be doing music, something that Patrick smiles at when they talk about Pete’s “good old days” because he can really hear the love in his voice. Fuck, maybe they could have made music together and the thought of that makes Patrick’s chest tighten because it sounds so _right_ , like he’s been living his life the wrong way this whole time. It’s almost like he’s been living in this alternate universe where everything is fucked and the guy he’s supposed to be with is only attainable by some weird supernatural circumstances. 

He wants to live in the world where he can hug Pete for real. 

“Can we go to the aquarium?” Pete asks, breaking Patrick of his spiraling ‘what ifs’, “It’s my favorite and I haven’t been since I was a kid.”

Patrick grins and shoves the rest of the donut in his mouth. “Of course.”

Which is how Patrick ends up walking around by himself in the aquarium, trying to steer clear from the mobs of students on a field trip and the stay at home moms clumped together with strollers. “You’re literally a child,” Patrick huffs softly, walking up to the glass and peering into the water to stare at the colorful fish. 

“It’s peaceful,” Pete says. 

Patrick winces when he hears a wailing child who is not happy about having to get back into their stroller. “Yeah, so serene.”

Pete snorts. “I don’t know, it’s one of those things I did when I was a kid with my parents. It’s sorta the only thing I remember us doing all together as a family, like just existing. We didn’t talk about my grades or soccer, or any expectations. It was easy, just walk around and look at fish.”

Patrick hums and walks around in silence for a bit, letting his gaze relax every now and then to make sure Pete’s still with him. Sometimes he sees Pete get up to refill his cup of tea or make a sandwich. And sometimes Pete will make a comment about whatever they’re looking at or he’ll tell Patrick another story about him as a kid. 

The way that Pete tells stories is sorta broken and filled with a lot of “uhs” and “you knows” and Patrick thinks it’s cute that Pete gets tongue tied when he’s talking about himself, especially if he’s explaining himself. And it’s totally the opposite of what he projects. Patrick thinks back to how Pete looked in the mirror, surrounded by a lavish house and coated in brand names. How his glorious smile was blinding enough to distract from the uncertainty in Pete’s eyes.

Except Patrick got to see the unedited versions of Pete. He thinks of the first glimpse he got when he was in the bar bathroom, how scared Pete had looked in the reflection. How he sees Pete’s hands shake when he thinks Patrick isn’t paying attention, and it makes him wonder how little everyone around him is watching Pete. Or worse, how often Pete is left alone. And it’s fucked. Absolutely fucked. 

But, what’s not fucked is how Patrick is starting to be able to fill in Pete’s “uhs” and “you knows”. How he’s starting to know what Pete is about to say before the words leave his mouth. And sometimes he wonders if their bond includes their thoughts, because it feels like they’re tangled sometimes. There’s times when Pete is telling a story and he compounds a bunch of movie references together and Patrick’s nodding along and saying, “Yeah, I don’t know why Taco Bell ever thought a seafood salad was a good idea.”

And it’s pretty nice to have Pete to talk to during the day when he’d probably be in a post-tour depression right now. Even more so with the uncertainty of what he’s going to next with music, but he’s got Pete to talk to him about fast food in the 80s while Patrick is doing his dishes or he’s getting out of the house because Pete’s craving a fucking donut. 

But, it’s not really the same as having Pete walking next to him instead of sitting in a living room on the west coast. 

“You should come to Chicago,” Patrick says when they’ve made it out of the aquarium. 

He’s walking towards Grant Park when Pete mumbles, “I can’t.”

Patrick frowns. “Why not?”

“Patrick,” Pete sighs.   
  
“You can tell Gabe you’re coming to see your parents.”

“They live in LA now too,” Pete says quietly. 

Patrick sinks onto a bench and leans back. “Not that I don’t love whatever this is,” he says quietly, “But I sorta want to actually hang out with you.”

And Patrick winces at how that sounds. The guy is fucking married, he shouldn’t be asking him to fly across the country to see him. But, he tells himself, it’s not really just to see him. Pete sounds like he’s wilting away in LA, like all the sunshine is burning the happiness right out of him. He needs to come home, Patrick assures himself. And, if home is where Patrick is, well Patrick thinks that’s just a bonus. 

“Trick,” Pete sighs, sitting back down on the couch that Patrick perpetually sees. 

“Seriously,” Patrick says, then quietly, “You need to get out of that house.”

“I can’t,” Pete whispers again and Patrick watches his fingers pull at a loose thread on the couch. 

Patrick thinks about going to LA then. He could hop on a plane and be there in five hours. But he’s not really sure what he’d do when he got there. He could crash with Andy, and then he and Pete could meet up and--“What are you doing?”

Patrick startles when he sees Gabe in front of Pete, sighing, “You were supposed to be ready by the time I got home. We have that dinner with my boss tonight.”

Patrick takes in Gabe. At the way he’s looking at Pete like he just doesn’t know what to do anymore. And it fucking hurts because Patrick can see the ghost of love on his face, something that used to be easy before they both grew up in different directions. Patrick knows it’s not fair, falling out of love with someone. He watched his parents go through it and he thinks that it should fuck up the way he thinks about relationships, and maybe it has considering he hasn’t been in a serious relationship in years. 

“Sorry,” Pete says quietly, “I’m not feeling well.”

Gabe frowns and sits on the couch, placing the back of his hand on Pete’s forehead. Patrick squirms because it feels all wrong, he sorta wants to shove him away and he wonders if that’s how Pete feels too. 

“You don’t feel warm,” Gabe says softly, stroking his hair. 

“Not that kind of sick,” Pete says softly, and _oh_. 

Patrick frowns. “Pete?”

Pete squeezes his hand into a fist, and it feels like he’s gripping Patrick’s hand. 

Gabe sighs, “Look, just make it through the dinner then you can come home and go straight to bed.”

“Fuck that,” Patrick says. He wants to tell him to get into his car and drive to the airport. Tell him to get on a plane or wait for him there and he’ll meet him. 

But Pete leans forward and kisses Gabe’s cheek and Patrick wants to throw up. His throat tightens and he feels like everything is spinning, because it’s different if Pete’s not willing to leave him. Patrick can see that Gabe is wrong for Pete all he wants, but it doesn’t mean anything if Pete doesn’t fucking leave on his own. 

Patrick can’t do this for him. 

“You deserve better,” Patrick says quietly, and then he pushes Pete out of his head and gets up to head back home.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re like a sneak attack,” Pete grins and Patrick scoffs, “No, you are! Like, you’re fucking hot as hell, right? And--”  
> “Pete--”  
> “Just being a supportive wingman,” Pete chuckles.  
> “I don’t think you’re supposed to hit on me if you’re my wingman,” Patrick sneers, and there’s that attitude Pete fucking loves.   
> “Oh, babe, you’ll know if I’m hitting on you,” Pete murmurs, grinning when Patrick chokes on his drink. “Smooth.”

Pete knows what’s going on between him and Patrick. And, he keeps reminding himself, that it’s not his fault. Who could really blame him for falling for a guy he’s got this connection with? It’s sort of inevitable. 

But, it doesn’t stop the guilt from eating at him in the early hours of the morning when he should be sleeping. Which is sorta funny, since he can’t-- _ hasn’t _ been able to sleep since he was a kid. Gabe keeps a bottle of sleeping pills locked in his desk and Pete could ask him for one, but that’s sorta embarrassing. So he just lets Gabe think he’s doing better. 

He’s not, is the thing. He’s not sure, but he thinks that maybe there’s such a thing as too much of a break. When he decided to stop practicing law, he had thought it was just going to be temporary. Or, he thought that maybe he would get into something else. But that had been a whole other can of worms. Because Pete doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do.The thought of going back to school is crippling. And he’s tried to sit at the computer and look up different career paths he could take, but everything looked soul crushing. 

Of course Patrick keeps talking about music and that Pete should get back into it. And Pete’s told him that “I can’t just suddenly become a rockstar” and Patrick had just scoffed and said, “Not with that attitude.” Which really is fucking funny coming from Patrick, the shy kid that blushes like a virgin and then gets up on stage and dances like he should be backing up against a pole. 

And he really doesn’t want to think about Pete on a pole.

So, Pete makes it his mission to get Patrick laid, or ideally a relationship so Pete will stop imagining what he could have with Patrick. He’s with Gabe, he’s  _ married _ , and he needs to stop letting his mind drift off to walking around Chicago with his hand in Patrick’s, stealing donut flavored kisses. 

“Why aren’t you seeing anyone?” Pete asks one evening when Patrick is sitting at a bar alone. 

Patrick huffs a laugh and sips at his whiskey. “Just haven’t found that person apparently.”

Pete doesn’t like how bitter Patrick sounds and he tries to keep this light and fun. Pete’s pulling out all his tricks that he uses at Gabe’s parties, keeping his voice sounding like he’s got a smirk on his face the whole time and he laughs along with Patrick. “Whatever, Mr. Rockstar. Come on! I’ll be your wingman.”

Patrick sighs. “Pete…”

“Seriously, look around the bar for me,” Pete says, “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

Patrick groans, but turns in his seat and scans the room slowly. Pete smiles that Patrick is playing along. He can be so grumpy sometimes and Pete shakes his head, trying to knock out the thought that Patrick’s grumpiness is something endearing. 

“What about her?” Pete asks, looking at the redhead in the corner who is playing pool, “The redhead. She’s pretty.”

“Um,” Patrick starts, then he turns and takes another drink, “Don’t really swing that way.”

Pete feels his body flush and he hopes that Patrick can’t feel that. Because he was pretty sure his feelings weren’t one sided, but this just sort of made things a little more complicated when it came to not thinking about Patrick  _ like that _ . “Cool,” Pete manages to say, “Makes it easier for me to pick someone out then.”

He grins when he hears Patrick sigh dramatically. He’s really loved watching Patrick come more out of his shell around him. It’s sort of hard to have any walls up when they’re connected like this, and he’d seen some pretty vulnerable sides of Patrick. But he doesn’t want to think about Patrick crying about being alone, Pete hadn’t been able to sleep that night. He relaxed a bit once he watched Patrick get into bed and wrap up in his blankets. Pete had stayed with him, hugging himself until he watched Patrick’s world go dark and then Pete was standing alone in his living room. 

Pete frowns and shakes his head, getting up and walking to the kitchen to pull out a beer. He sits at the table and lets his eyes relax, watching Patrick’s world bleed into his. And like this, it almost feels like he’s having a drink with Patrick. 

And that’s when he sees him. 

This guy, this  _ beautiful _ guy, sitting down the bar that Patrick keeps side glancing at. And he’s totally checking Patrick out. 

Pete chuckles and tells him, “that guy is checking you out.”

“I know him,” Patrick says quietly, “That’s Travie.”

“You  _ know _ him?” Pete squeals, taking another drink from his beer and grinning like an idiot. “Oh my God, this is perfect. Go talk to him.”

“Uh, no,” Patrick says, “Probably not the best.”

“Wait, why?” Pete says, then he starts giggling when Patrick’s silence starts filling in the blanks. “Did you sleep with him and not call him the next morning?”

“Shut up,” Patrick mutters, taking a drink. 

Pete laughs. “Lunchbox, you heartbreaker.”

He can practically feel Patrick’s blush. “You’re the worst kind too,” Pete muses, “All shy and angelic looking, and then you get to know you…”

“And?”

“You’re like a sneak attack,” Pete grins and Patrick scoffs, “No, you are! Like, you’re fucking hot as hell, right? And--”

“ _ Pete _ \--”

“Just being a supportive wingman,” Pete chuckles.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to hit on me if you’re my wingman,” Patrick sneers, and there’s that attitude Pete fucking loves. 

“Oh, babe, you’ll know if I’m hitting on you,” Pete murmurs, grinning when Patrick chokes on his drink. “Smooth.”

“Fuck you,” he coughs. 

The bartender gives them a funny look, but goes back to wiping down glasses. 

“Go talk to Travie,” Pete says, “Ask him out and make sure you call him the next day.”

“Why are you doing this?” Patrick sighs. 

_ Because if you’re with someone too, I’ll stop imagining leaving my husband for you.  _ “You don’t deserve to be alone,” he says instead. 

“I’m not--” Then Patrick cuts off and takes another drink before saying, “Fuck, he’s coming over here.”

“Perfect!” Pete giggles. 

Travie is even more beautiful up close and Pete wonders how Patrick was able to tear himself from this man’s bed. “Hey,” he says, “Funny running into you again.”

Oh. Oh, this is going to be so good. “Tell him you’ve been thinking about him,” Pete says. 

“Yeah, I just got home from tour,” Patrick says. 

“Wow” Pete says, shaking his head, “Now you sound like a dick. Tell him something nice. Tell him you like his shoes.”

“I like your shoes,” Patrick says automatically and Pete bursts out laughing. How the fuck was this kid gettting laid if this is his game?

Travie grins and looks down at his shoes, “Um, thanks. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Yep,” Pete says.

Patrick coughs. “Yeah, I’m going to grab a table though, if that’s cool.”

Travie nods and Patrick hurries away from him. “Oh my God, you have to stop,” Patrick whispers. 

“I’m helping,” Pete insists. 

“You are not!” Patrick hisses, “Behave or I’m shutting you out.”

“You wouldn’t,” Pete scoffs. 

And then for a moment Pete is alone in his living room again, just long enough for the quietness to make his ears ring and he misses hearing Patrick’s voice and

“See?” Patrick says, then he looks up and watches Travie walk towards him, “Now behave.”

“Fine,” Pete grumbles, “You’re no fun.”

Travie pulls up a chair to the table and sets down Patrick’s drink. When Patrick takes a sip, Pete can tell it’s not his usual brand of Whiskey. 

“Ask him what he’s been up to,” Pete says. 

“What have you been up to?” Patrick asks and Pete grins. Patrick...isn’t bad at this once he gets going and Pete sort of lets himself get swept up in it for a moment. He tries to think what it would be like if he was on the other side of him. How Patrick would look when he rolled the edge of the glass against his full lips before taking a drink, grinning over the rim of the glass and letting his tongue flick out to savor the lingering taste of the amber liquid. What it would be like to be one the receiving end of his smile, to be able to really see it instead of through a glass. How it would feel to have Patrick reach out and touch his hand, almost shyly before sliding his fingertips down the wrist to rest against his pulse. 

It’s almost not fair. 

“Sneak attack,” Pete whispers, “Swear to God.”

Patrick chuckles, and Pete knows it’s for him. 

“Want to do dinner Thursday?” Travie asks, leaning in. 

“Sure,” Patrick says, shrugging up a shoulder. 

“Yes!” Pete yells, standing up like he’s at a hockey game, but then he deflates, “Wait, no! I have a charity gala that night!”

Patrick takes a sip and mutters, “You’re not invited.”

*

So, in Patrick’s attempt to win Travie over after he snuck out of his apartment last time, he’s cooking dinner at his place. It seemed like a good idea when he offered, and he liked the way Travie had smiled when he invited him over. The problem, however, is that Patrick can’t cook worth shit. 

“Quick, give me a famous Donna Way recipe,” Patrick had said when Mikey finally picked up the phone. 

“Trick? What the hell?”

“Look, I know your mom has a good Italian dish or something--”

“I don’t know if that’s slightly racist or--”

“Mikey, I don’t have time,” Patrick whined, “I have to still go to the store and like, maybe buy a pot or whatever is required to make said dish.”

“Patrick Stump, do you have a  _ date _ ?” Mikey asked with dripping sarcasm. 

“Yes,” Patrick sighed, “Are you happy? Yes, I have a date and I offered to cook when I know nothing about cooking.”

Which is sort of how Patrick’s ended up standing at his stove, poking at this pasta casserole dish that Mikey unearthed from his grandmother’s recipe book. “He’ll love you forever,” Mikey had promised, “This stuff is like crack.”

Patrick doesn’t know much about cooking crack, but if it’s any harder than cooking this ridiculous casserole, then he understands why it costs so much. 

“Um, what’s that?” Pete asks. 

Patrick sighs, frowning at the rubbery cheese that’s sitting on top of greasy noodles. “I think it needs a bit longer in the oven,” he says, sticking it back in. 

“Yeah...maybe,” Pete says uncertainly.

Patrick rushes to the bathroom and stares in the mirror. “Do I look ok?” He asks, fiddling with his hair and pulling at the tie around his neck. 

“Lose the tie,” Pete says, “And open a couple buttons.”

“Really?” Patrick asks, tossing the tie and unbuttoning his shirt a little. 

“Actually, what the fuck? Why are you wearing a button up? This is a date, not a job interview,” Pete says, “Also, you’re in your house. You should look comfy, but like sexy comfy.”

Patrick huffs and goes to his closet. “I don’t have sexy comfy clothes.”

“Yes you do,” Pete scolds, “Wear that really soft sweater you had on the other day and take your shoes off.”

“What?”

“Watching you cook in your socks is going to be hot as hell,” Pete says. 

Patrick giggles as he sheds his shirt and slips on the sweater Pete is talking about. “Do you have a feet thing?”

“I have a Patrick thing.”

And there it is again. Pete’s been increasingly more flirtatious with him, and Patrick’s not sure how he should process that. On one hand it makes him giddy and he wants to call up Andy to see if he can crash on his couch while he plans a way to steal Pete away from his husband. On the other, Pete could just be flirty with his friends--Patrick hasn’t really seen him interact with other people besides Gabe. Which is a whole other issue that Patrick doesn’t want to unpack while he’s trying to dress sexy comfy and not burn a dish for his date. Patrick has no idea why he’s agreed to this fucking date. 

It seemed like a good idea at the time. It seemed necessary even because Patrick’s got a tab open on his computer for flights to LA. And he’s opened and started a text to Andy so many times. Patrick’s always prided himself on being rational, but Pete’s gotten under his skin and he just can’t shake him. He can’t--doesn’t even want to even. 

And that’s why he needs to follow through with this date. 

Patrick gets dressed and goes back to the mirror and messes his hair up a bit more, blushing when Pete chuckles and says, “Much better. Fuck, you look great.”

“Thanks,” he says softly, hurrying away from the mirror and going back to check on the casserole. It doesn’t look any better. 

“Maybe you should have just thrown a pizza into the oven,” Pete says gravely. 

“There isn’t any time,” Patrick sighs, then, “Aren’t you supposed to be at that gala?”

Patrick’s been too focused with what’s going on in front of him that he doesn’t notice Pete’s hiding in a bathroom. Pete sighs and walks up to the vanity and it’s like the very first time all over again, Pete looking sad in an expensive looking suit. His eyes look dead behind all the eyeliner and his hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in days. 

“I hate these things,” he sighs, turning on the water and holding his wrists under the cold stream. 

“Anxiety bad?” Patrick asks softly. 

“Yeah,” Pete murmurs. 

“Stay with me then,” Patrick offers, “You can try and make me say stupid things. I know you like doing that.”

Pete huffs an almost laugh and shakes his head. “No, that’s fine,” he says, “You enjoy your date, you deserve it.”

Patrick wants to tell him that he shouldn’t even be on this date. That he doesn’t want it to be Travie he’s cooking a horrible casserole for, he wants it to be Pete. He wants to stand in his kitchen in his socks and watch the way Pete looks at him, with that smug little smile that Patrick’s only heard in his voice. 

There’s a soft knock at his door, making Patrick jump. 

“Let me know how it goes,” Pete says, then he looks up into the mirror again, “Well, you know tomorrow. And don’t give me  _ all _ the details.”

Patrick scoffs. “Yeah, ok.”

And then Pete’s gone. 

Patrick hesitates before going to the door.

*

Pete ignores Gabe’s raised eyebrow as he grabs another beer from the bar. He knows that it’s probably not a great idea to get drunk at a charity ball or gala, whatever. What’s the difference anyway?

And he’s telling himself that he’s  _ not _ drinking because Patrick is in Chicago getting laid by a hot guy who’ll probably make Patrick forget Pete’s name. That was the plan, Pete reminds himself, he needs Patrick to be happy. 

“Hey, let’s sit down,” Gabe murmurs, “They’re about to serve dinner.”

Pete hates being ushered around events by Gabe. He’ll put his hand on Pete’s lower back and the touch makes Pete’s skin crawl. Because it’s sorta like someone’s possessed Gabe. He’s got Gabe’s body, but the man in there isn’t the man he fell in love with. He hates listening to him talk at the table that he sits them at. Hates hearing stories of how he and Pete met, how everyone at the table laughs politely at Gabe’s description of how rebellious Pete was when they were kids. The way he tells it is like someone talking fondly about the deceased at a funeral, and Pete feels icy cold. 

Until he’s not.

Until it feels like he’s on fire. 

No, not him. Patrick’s kitchen. There’s fire in front of him and Patrick is yelling. 

Which makes Pete stand up and yell, “Put it out!”

Patrick is standing in front of his oven and there’s fire flaring up in his face, making Pete gasp at the heat. He feels like he’s going to lose an eyebrow and he wills Patrick to do  _ something _ . He really doesn’t want the two of them to burn over a fucking satanic noodle cassarole dish.

“I don’t--” Patrick stutters, frantic. 

“Fire extinguisher!” Pete yells, snapping to get Patrick's attention, then he’s pointing at the fire in front of him, “Get the fire extinguisher.”

Pete watches Patrick pull the fire extinguisher out from under his sink and then he’s turning it around in his hands like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be doing with it. 

“Babe, pull the pin out and squeeze the lever...move the hose in a sweeping motion,” Pete says, trying to talk calmly, but he can hear his voice shaking and he’s pretty sure he hasn’t exhaled yet.

Patrick follows Pete’s directions with shaky hands and then Pete watches the fire die down under the blow of the extinguisher. 

“What the fuck?” Pete breathes, and then he’s being shaken. 

He blinks and sees Gabe in front of him, shaking his shoulders. “Pete? Hey, look at me!”

“Stay out of this, Gabe,” Patrick hisses. 

Pete blinks, head dizzy from the drop of adrenaline and Patrick snapping at Gabe. He’s just...

“I just need to go step outside,” Pete whispers. 

*

Pete’s sitting on the couch again. It feels like his home lately, like a safety boat in the midst of this huge house threatening to drown him. 

Gabe had been furious. The quiet kind of anger that Pete hates the most. The kind where Gabe politely excused them from the table and led him to the car. He opened the car door and nudged Pete to sit down, buckling him in like he was a child. And Pete was still a little in shock to protest. Gabe didn’t say anything to him on the way home, he just drove them home quickly and quietly. 

And then he went to their bedroom and shut the door quietly. 

That was hours ago. Pete’s had the television on a low volume, watching  _ Ghostbusters _ because it usually cheers him up, but it’s not the same without quoting the lines with Patrick. So he turns it off and tries to read for a little bit, but he keeps reading the same sentence over and over. 

“Are you ok?” Patrick whispers. 

Pete sighs in relief. He had wondered if he’d hear from Patrick tonight. Though, he knows that if Patrick is talking to him, then Travie probably left. 

“Date didn’t go so well?” Pete guesses. 

“He may have gotten weirded out when I started a fire then talked to myself,” Patrick chuckles. 

Pete’s a little surprised that he doesn’t taste whiskey, even more so that he sees that he’s sitting at a piano. “Going to play me something?”

“Trying to write,” Patrick hums, “Nothing’s really coming to me though.”

“You had an eventful night,” Pete points out. 

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees, “I don’t think I’ll be using any of Elena’s recipes again.”

“Elena?”

Patrick’s fingers run across some notes on the piano. “Yeah, Mikey’s grandma. The casserole was her recipe.”

“Poor Mikey.”

Patrick laughs. “I think it had more to do with my cooking skills than her recipe.”

Pete quiets, smiling and watching Patrick fumble around on the piano for a moment. Then he sits back on the bench and sets his hands on his lap.“I’m sorry I ruined your evening.”

“It’s fine,” Pete says softly, “I would have found a way to ruin it anyway.”

Patrick makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. “You need to be nicer to yourself.”

Pete’s been mean for as long as he can remember. Stemming back to when his mom used to tell him that it’s not nice to talk good about yourself, that it makes you seem too prideful. And Pete was always the kid that did things that were “funny” to keep the other kids laughing long enough that they couldn’t say anything mean to him. He’d embarrass himself, hurt himself, get himself in trouble with the teacher--anything to get them to find him entertaining, anything to feel accepted even if it was at the cost of himself. 

He doesn’t think he ever really shook that when he got older. And the laughter of everyone else never did drown out his own voice, the one that told him he was trying too hard or that they’re only laughing because he’s pathetic. That no one noticed Pete working himself into the ground because no one gave a shit about him. Because he’s not worth it.

“I didn’t think you’d still be up,” Patrick says eventually. 

“I’m not very good at sleeping,” Pete admits. 

“Lately or is it a thing?” Patrick wonders. 

“A thing,” Pete mumbles, “Another perk of being Pete Wentz.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything at first and Pete wonders if maybe he’s taken his emo thing too far, but then Patrick says, “Lay back on the couch. Get comfy.”

Pete raises an eyebrow, but leans back on the couch, pushing the throw pillow under his head and pulling the blanket off the couch and over himself. 

“Good,” Patrick says gently, “Now close your eyes.”

And because it’s Patrick, Pete listens. 

He sees nothing but Patrick’s world this way. He smiles a little at Patrick’s hands moving back to the piano keys. He plays something soothing, just a flutter of notes that are nice and make Pete’s mind feel like it’s being wrapped up in a blanket. 

And then Patrick starts singing. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “--I’ve hardly seen you,” Patrick cuts him off. “I hear you talk. Listen to your ideas and the way you think about the world. I”--Patrick laughs and shakes his head-- “I hear your stupid hair band music and the way you laugh at the same parts in Ghostbusters. I hear you play bass like you’re fucking dying and…” he trails off before realizing that Pete’s holding his breath and says quietly, “I hear you say my name like it matters to someone.”

Patrick has been trying not to rely on Pete so much lately, but it’s not really working out. 

They’ve tried to be more careful about talking to each other when one of them is around other people, especially after Pete’s freak out in front of Gabe when Patrick almost burned down his apartment--“Don’t blame my grandma for your shitty cooking skills,” Mikey had said on Skype when Patrick showed him the singed pan. But they’re still spending their days with one another, keeping each other company while Patrick is in the studio or Pete is doing laundry. Pete teaches Patrick how to cook something that doesn’t come from the freezer section at the grocery store and cheers when Patrick pulls out his spinach lasagna out of the oven without rubbery cheese or a fire. And Patrick’s gotten Pete to start writing again. 

It started off gradually, Pete would say something and Patrick would write it down. 

“What are you doing?” Pete had asked.

“Well you won’t write them down,” Patrick said with a grin, hearing the huff of frustration from Pete. 

And he had silently cheered when he popped in and saw Pete tossing a notebook into his shopping cart. “I know you’re there,” Pete had mumbled, “And this isn’t you winning.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Patrick reminded him with a smirk. 

Patrick tries really hard  _ not _ to fangirl over his writing, he doesn’t want to scare him off. But he’s liberal with his praise, thinks that Pete’s forgotten that he’s good at this. And a sadder part of Patrick thinks that he’s forgotten what it felt like to be good at anything, or at least think he was good. So Patrick makes sure to tell him when he likes something, slips it in their conversations so it doesn’t make Pete run for the hills. Though he knows he’s not fooling anyone with the way he says, “I’m thinking about going vegan, also I really like how you keep writing about Heaven as if it was an exclusive club.”

But it’s so sweet how Pete gets all tongue tied over his own words. How he stutters and tries to play them off when Patrick asks him to explain the meaning. Patrick has a feeling it’s more that Pete doesn’t want to take the magic from the reader. Wants them to make their own meaning, and Patrick thinks he’s just falling even more in love with Pete.

“Oh, I really like that,” Patrick says one day when he’s in the studio and looks past his line of vision so that he can see Pete’s notebook page. 

_ My heart is like a stallion, they love it more when it's broken _

Pete chuckles a little. “Not too emo?”

Patrick shrugs and grabs his iPad, swiping through to something he’s been working on in GarageBand. “Do you have more?”

“Yeah,” Pete says, turning the page and Patrick reads the few lines that Pete is pointing to.

“Huh,” Patrick says, already hearing the notes starting to string together, sees red circle around his mind and he’s picking up his guitar like the second nature it is and starts strumming, fumbling a bit and changing his mind before settling on a chorus and singing, “I don’t know where you’re going, but do you got room for one more troubled soul…”

Then he stops and grins. “Yeah I like that,” Patrick says, pulling his iPad closer. He plays with some drums before he starts to click over to the bass then he pauses and says, “Pete, get your bass.”

He expects Pete to protest, to say he hasn’t played in so long, but he doesn’t. He hurries to the music room that Patrick hasn’t seen since Pete laid on the ground and told him how he broke down in court. He watches him hover over his bass for a moment before picking it up and saying, “Alright, so here’s what I was thinking.”

It really shouldn’t work, writing music with someone else. Patrick hates trying to let go of the control he craves when he’s in the studio. He doesn’t like anyone to jump in while he’s sliding notes together like perfectly carved puzzle pieces. But Pete is like...fuck, Patrick doesn’t even know. Patrick’s never written a song this fast in his life. Has never started to sing something then have Pete tell him he changed a word and suddenly it sounds so much better. Has never heard the notes in his head then finds Pete picking them up on his bass as if he knew exactly what Patrick was thinking. Has never felt like someone understood what he was trying to say and then put it into words for Patrick. 

And it’s really something, watching Pete’s fingers run over his bass strings, listening to him play and  _ feeling _ him vibrate from the excitement. He can tell that this is healing, something that Pete had forgotten he even needed. So much so that when they’ve finished the song, Pete’s breathing hard and says, “I have more lyrics.”

Patrick grins and says, “Let’s see what we can do with them.”

*

Pete spends his days in the music room now. Writing and practicing whatever Patrick has written for the bass in these songs they’re piecing together. It’s the most fun he’s had in ages and he keeps finding himself smiling in the mirrors he passes, seeing a ghost of Patrick in the reflection with him. Keeps feeling himself jump out of bed because he has words dancing in his head that he’s excited to tell Patrick about. 

“What are you doing?”

Pete feels Patrick stiffen as he looks up and sees Gabe leaning against the doorway with a soft smile. Pete’s heart flips because he looks like his Gabe for a moment. Despite the white coat and tired eyes, he looks like  _ his _ . 

“Playing,” Pete says with a proud grin and he plays a bit just to watch Gabe’s expression. It’s a mix of emotions. Longing for a better time, bitterness because he’s lost music as well, and love, surprisingly, suffocatingly, there’s love. 

He taps on his wrist and Patrick clears his throat. “Yeah, I’ll um, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And Pete feels his heart sink at the tone in Patrick’s voice. Feels his head swim under the confusion of it all because he’s being ripped in half where he wants to hang on to these few moments he gets with Gabe, but he also wants to chase after whatever is blossoming with Patrick. But the ring on his hand feels like lead. 

“C’mere,” Pete whispers, raising his eyebrow. 

Gabe hovers, like he’s just trying to prove that Pete doesn’t still have a pull on him after all these years, but he walks over and slides the bass off from Pete’s shoulders. Pete watches him set it down gently then back Pete up until he’s sitting back on the couch.

Kissing Gabe lately is always such a toss up. Either it feels like something clinical and cold, or it feels like he can taste carbonated alcohol on his lips and feel the stage lights warm his cheeks. Pete knows he’s rushing, that he’s sliding the white coat off Gabe’s shoulders as quickly as possible, like removing it will remove the last few years of Gabe putting work before Pete time and time again. Like if he shoves it to the floor, they can ignore Gabe’s pager going off. 

“Ignore it,” Pete demands, holding tightly to his shoulders. 

“Pete, I can’t,” Gabe sighs, like Pete is the most unreasonable person on the planet, “You know that.”

Pete shoves Gabe off him and storms out of the music room, not wanting to ruin this room that has become such a place of healing with Patrick with the destruction of Gabe. 

“What do you want me to do?” Gabe grits out, following Pete out into the living room, “it’s my job.”

“And I’m your husband,” Pete snaps, turning around, “I’m the one that you made a vow to.”

“I made an oath as a doctor as well,” Gabe reminds him. 

“I didn’t realize that cancelled out me,” Pete says.

“Of course it doesn’t--”

“I don’t even see you anymore!” Pete cries out, “I only have dinner with you if we’re at someone else’s house or at another fucking event. You stay at that hospital like you’re hiding from me.”

“Why the fuck--”

“Because you don’t want to see what a failure I am!”

“What--” Gabe starts, then he shakes his head and slips on his coat. “You know what? You’re obviously not having a good day, why don’t--”

“I’m not ill,” Pete says, “I’m not a china doll that you can lock up in here so I don’t break. I’m a fucking person with feelings and wants and you can’t keep ignoring that because you’re scared.”

Gabe stares at him with wide eyes then nods. “Ok, what--do you want to go back to work? Is that what this is? You’re bored?”

Pete rolls his eyes so hard he thinks they’ll fall out of his head. “You’re not even listening to me. No, I don’t want to go back to the firm.”

Gabe frowns. “Ok, well then what do you want to do?”

“Make music,” Pete says quickly, before he even really realizes what he’s saying. And that’s how he knows it’s the truth. Because it feels so fucking right. He can’t remember the last time he felt like something had just clicked so effortlessly. Making music with Patrick was...well, not effortless. Patrick was kind of an ass when they worked on music together, but the product was always breathtaking. The way Patrick sounded singing  _ his  _ words, thoughts that had been spiraling around his mind for years, all alone and cold were suddenly warm and full of life with Patrick. Were existing and in the world because Patrick said them, because Patrick made him feel like he mattered and he deserved to be heard.

“What?” Gabe laughs, walking around to find his eyes, “Pete, come on, we’re not kids anymore.”

And it’s just a fucking slap in the face. It’s clear as night and day the difference between him and Patrick, and Pete’s been trying really hard not to compare the two of them. “You should go,” Pete says coldly, looking away.

It doesn’t even hurt when Gabe leaves this time. 

*

Patrick is stepping out of the shower when he hears, “Need help with that?”

He squeaks and makes sure not to look down as he wraps a towel around his waist. It takes him a moment to realize the buzz of his skin isn’t from embarrassment, it’s from Pete. “Are you drunk?”

“Not yet,” Pete mumbles and it makes Patrick frown. 

“Drinking before noon is a little more my speed, don’t you think?” Patrick asks cautiously, avoiding the mirror in the bathroom so Pete can’t see the concern he’s sure is painted thick on his face. 

He sees Pete sitting on the floor, of his kitchen it looks like. He’s got a bottle of something clear in his hands and when he takes a sip, Patrick wrinkles his nose. “I hate tequila,” he tells Pete. 

Pete snorts. “Sorry, babe, it’s my heartache drink of choice.”

Patrick sits on the edge of his tub and sighs. “Gabe?”

Pete just takes another drink. 

Patrick tries to consider his next words carefully and he doesn’t think he’s got it yet, but he says, “He doesn’t make you happy.”

Pete snorts again. “Yeah.”

“Why are you still…?”

“I don’t even know,” Pete whispers, sitting back against something--a kitchen cabinet, Patrick suspects. “He doesn’t even love me anymore.”

“Pete…” Patrick trails off, because that can’t be true. He doesn’t understand how anyone could ever stop loving Pete. “You’re easy to love.”

Pete laughs out loud to that, Patrick winces a little at the volume and then frowns when the laughter dies into a harsh intake of breath. “I’m the hardest person to love, Trick. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

I love you, Patrick thinks and he’s a little stunned at how quickly he’s just come to accept that. How he’s never even  _ met _ this man, but he knows he loves him. Knows it the same way he knows the sun will rise tomorrow--it’s inevitable. And  _ natural _ . Easy as breathing and he doesn’t have a clue why Pete would ever think he’s hard to love. 

“Pete, that’s not true.”

“All anyone wants from me is my looks,” Pete spits out, “I just look good on Gabe’s arm and--”

“--I’ve hardly seen you,” Patrick cuts him off. “I hear you talk. Listen to your ideas and the way you think about the world. I”--Patrick laughs and shakes his head-- “I hear your stupid hair band music and the way you laugh at the same parts in  _ Ghostbusters _ . I hear you play bass like you’re fucking dying and…” he trails off before realizing that Pete’s holding his breath and says quietly, “I hear you say my name like it matters to someone.”

“Trick,” Pete breathes and Patrick smiles and closes his eyes, pretends he’s sitting there in Pete’s kitchen with him. That he can reach over to take his hand and tell him it’ll be alright. They’ll get through this rough patch. He grins and takes his own hand, squeezing it then opening his eyes when he feels Pete squeeze back. “I haven’t been excited about anything until I wrote music with you. Actually, until I heard you perform--saw you perform. I forgot how much I loved music until you.”

Patrick nods, tracing shapes into the palm of his hand. “It feels like--”

“--like we’re supposed to be making music together?” Pete asks, and he sounds so hesitant, so hopeful that Patrick thinks he’s going to shatter under the weight of it. It’s not even a bad weight, Patrick would gladly shatter for Pete. 

When Patrick doesn’t say anything, Pete continues softly, “Sometimes I think I made you up. Like I really am as crazy as everyone treats me.”

“You’re not crazy,” Patrick says sternly. 

Pete chuckles and takes another drink. “Doesn’t count if my hallucination tells me that.”

“I’m  _ here _ ,” Patrick says, voice cracking. 

“Trick,” Pete murmurs and Patrick’s trying so hard not to spontaneously combust that he misses the part where Pete apparently stuck his hand down his pants because the next thing that Patrick knows, he’s moaning loudly at the searing hot pleasure rocking through his body. He lets himself slide back into the tub and press his head back onto the porcelain.

“Fuck,” Patrick breathes removing the towel, because, ok, they’re doing this. 

He would be fucking lying if he said he never thought about how it would feel to feel Pete jerk off. How he’d be able to feel it like Pete’s hand was on his own cock. But he never let himself dwell on the fantasy for long, because it would just get too fucking depressing and that was never how he wanted to feel about his cock. 

Patrick wraps a hand around his own cock, dizzy with how quickly he’s gotten hard, and bucks at the sheer intensity, and then bites his lip so he can hear Pete’s moan coat his mind. Because it’s not just his hand on his cock, but he’s touching Pete too like this. And Pete is touching him even though he’s thousands of miles away, he’s never felt closer to anyone before. 

He closes his eyes and imagines his hand wrapped around Pete, pretends he’s there with him with his lips hovered over Pete’s. That he can feel his gasps kiss his face, that he’s there to catch every moan into his mouth, taste them then give them back in a long kiss. Patrick would give anything to be able to taste Pete right now. Would give anything to be able to sit back and watch the way Pete’s falling apart on his kitchen floor right now. 

Patrick reaches behind him and finds shower gel, thinking it’ll have to do in a pinch and slicks up his hand so he can get a rhythm going, can thrust up into his hand, then slide his fingers down and cup his balls. 

“Fuck, Trick,” Pete gasps and Patrick feels them starting to shake. Them. Because he doesn’t feel like he’s separate from Pete at this moment. It feels like they’re one being, moving and working together to the finish line. That they’re wrapped up in each other, feeling, teasing, and touching at the same time. Patrick swears when he breathes in it fills Pete’s lungs and when Pete moans, it escapes Patrick’s lips. Thinks that he hears Pete’s heartbeat echoing in his own mind. 

“Gonna...” Patrick warns, but he doesn’t really have to because Pete’s already tensing and then Patrick feels like he’s really fucking dying or something because it’s never been this good. Never felt like he couldn’t breathe under the thick blanket of pleasure robbing him of any inkling of thought or feeling besides Pete, Pete, Pete. And he’s gasping, shaking before he realizes he’s still hard in his own hand, that he hasn’t even come himself and when it hits him a second time, Pete’s practically sobbing in his mind, chanting his name and then they’re both falling slack and breathing hard. 

“Fuck,” Pete breathes, then laughs, sounding almost high from it and it makes Patrick giggle too. “Wow, I see why Travie was sad you never called him back.”

Patrick snorts. “I don’t think metaphysical jerking off is a normal thing, Pete.”

“Don’t cheapen what that just was,” Pete says, sounding breathless still. 

“Believe me, I’m not,” Patrick grins, running his fingers down his stomach and chuckling when he feels Pete jerk at the touch. 

“Sensitive,” he whines. 

Patrick smirks and dips his fingers into the pearly wetness that’s dripping down his stomach before sliding it in his mouth. He feels the heat of Pete’s arousal start to swirl in his stomach again and he grins when Pete mutters, “Are you trying to kill me?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mikey shrugs. “You guys fucked last night though.”
> 
> “I don’t think what we did counts as fucking,” Patrick says then holds up his hand and says, “I swear to God if you start saying shit about sex doesn’t have to be penatrative I’m going to reach through the phone and strangle you. I’m pretty sure you have to at least be in the same room to have sex.”
> 
> “Phone sex,” Mikey points out. 
> 
> Patrick rubs his face. “Tell me why we’re friends again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I realize it's been about a month since I've updated this fic and I'm really fucking sorry. I just needed a break from it and wanted to return to it when I felt like I could give it the attention I thought it deserved.

When Patrick wakes up the next morning, he tries really hard not to read into last night. 

He just gets out of bed and goes about his usual routine. But when he’s standing in the bathroom flossing his teeth, he keeps looking at the tub and gets searing flashbacks of what the porcelain felt like on his feverish skin or how Pete’s gasps sounded like they were coming above him instead of in his mind. How it had seemed so real, and it  _ was real _ he reminds himself. Only, as he sits on the closed toilet seat and puts his head in his hands, this isn’t the kind of relationship he had wanted for himself. 

None of his relationships really worked out, and he had been at peace with that. It sorta played into the tortured artist thing he had going on. But that was all before Pete. Pete who he hasn’t even met but knows more than people he’s known his whole life. And maybe there’s something about him being in his mind, or however it works, that makes him feel so safe with him. Maybe it's the fact that they can’t see each other that makes it so easy to bare each other’s soul to one another. There’s no judgemental looks or sneers of disapproval. 

But he knows he’s just making excuses, trying to find an easy way to explain the way he feels because he’s sorta freaking out. 

He hears his phone chime from the bedroom and he frowns, wondering who’s calling him this early. Only he realizes as he picks up the phone that it’s almost noon and it’s a FaceTime call from Mikey. Because of course it is. 

“You’ve got a sixth sense for when I’m freaking out,” he says, opening the video call. 

Mikey smirks and takes a sip of coffee. “You’re freaking out?”

Patrick rolls his eyes and wanders into the kitchen to find his own caffeine. 

“Explains why I haven’t heard from you,” Mikey says, 

Patrick winces, because he’s sort of been a shitty friend. But he’s been a little overwhelmed with Pete, or not overwhelmed really. Just, consumed. In the best way. 

“I’ve been writing music again,” Patrick tells him, setting up his french press and he looks down at the phone screen to see Mikey’s expression harden. “What?”

“You been drinking again?”

Patrick frowns. He really hasn’t. “No,” he says, “I--”

“You know I know when you’re lying to me, right?” 

Patrick sighs. “Well you better get your Patrick radar checked because I’m not drinking, Mikes.”

Mikey considers it, then says, “But there’s something up. You’re...like vibrating with something.”

Patrick has only met Mikey’s brother, Gerard, a few times but it’s enough to tell that Mikey’s been hanging out with him a lot again. Gerard’s got this weird artsy way of explaining things and Patrick usually brushes it off when Mikey starts talking like a fortune cookie, but he knows Mikey is right. 

“Trick, hey, what’s going on?” Mikey says, and Patrick watches Mikey light a cigarette. 

“Thought you were quitting,” Patrick mumbles and Mikey narrows his eyes. 

“Baby isn’t here yet, and don’t try to change the subject.”

So Patrick pours himself a cup of coffee and sits at the kitchen table, Mikey propped against his napkin holder. And then he tells Mikey everything that’s happened. He tells him about that first night in New York, how Pete’s been with him ever since. He tells him about Gabe, and the way Pete is suffocating in the big house of his. Tells him about the horrible date with Travie--”Your grandmother’s casserole sucks by the way”--and how he’ll play at the piano when Pete has trouble sleeping. Mikey doesn’t say anything, just stares and lets Patrick tell him how they’ve been writing music together and it’s really fucking good it’s-- “Mikey, I’ve never felt on the same level with someone before. Not when it comes to music.”

“Send me some stuff,” is all that Mikey says and it makes Patrick grin, because of course Mikey would just accept this. Maybe Patrick should send Gerard a fruit basket or something. But then Mikey sighs and says, “So you’re in love with him?”

Patrick chokes on the sip of coffee he just took. “I’m sorry?”

Mikey smirks. “You’re all heart eyes talking about him.”

Patrick snorts and waves it off, even though his heart is thundering. “I just told you I have this metaphysical connection with some guy in LA. Of course I’m going to get a little sappy about it.”

“S’not the same,” Mikey argues, “I’ve seen you in love Trick, I know what it looks like.”

Patrick swallows thickly. Yeah, Mikey would know considering it had been directed at him once upon a time. “It’s not that easy.”

Mikey rolls his eyes, blowing smoke at the camera. “Because he’s got a shit husband?”

“Well,” Patrick starts, frowning again, “Yeah?”

Mikey shrugs. “You guys fucked last night though.”

“I don’t think what we did counts as fucking,” Patrick says then holds up his hand and says, “I swear to God if you start saying shit about sex doesn’t have to be penatrative I’m going to reach through the phone and strangle you. I’m pretty sure you have to at least be in the same room to have sex.”

“Phone sex,” Mikey points out. 

Patrick rubs his face. “Tell me why we’re friends again.”

“Who else would believe you’ve got a soulmate in LA that you can hear in your mind?”

Patrick nods, yeah there’s that. He’s pretty sure Joe would ask what he’s been smoking and if he’d share and Andy would try to have him committed. Mikey’s just weird enough to believe him. “What do I do?”

“Probably should talk about it with Pete,” Mikey points out, stabbing his spent cigarette in an ashtray. “It doesn’t sound like Pete’s marriage is working out, but I don’t need to tell you that you shouldn’t start shit until the divorce papers are signed.”

“A bit late for that.”

“Thought it didn’t count as sex,” Mikey fires back. 

“Have I told you how much I hate you?” Patrick bites out. 

“Love you too. Now go talk to your boyfriend,” Mikey grins. 

*

For the first time in a while, Pete wakes up hopeful. 

Which is a bit strange since nothing has really changed. Well, he’s pretty ecstatic that him wanting Patrick was pretty fucking mutual, but their situation hasn’t changed. Patrick is still in Chicago while Pete is in LA. Married. 

He sits up and wipes at his face, trying to stay rational despite the images of himself rushing to the next plane to Chicago. 

Rational. Right, that was never something Pete was good at. But, let’s try rational. 

Rational would be to sit Gabe down and tell him that their marriage has been broken for a while. That it’s not healthy for either of them at this point and that the best option for them moving forward is to get a divorce. Pete doesn’t even  _ want _ anything, he’s willing to sign whatever papers Gabe pushes his way, he just wants out. And that sort of shakes him a bit. Because that means things have gotten pretty bad. He doesn’t want to fight anymore, he just wants to leave while they’re both slightly intact. Because, fuck, what would they look like if they let this continue? Nevermind Pete, how would Gabe function? Pete loves Gabe enough to know that he’s not the person to be his husband, Gabe needs someone who’s on the same path he’s chosen for himself. A path that’s deterred from where Pete is going. 

And coming to that conclusion is so relieving. 

Patrick. Fuck, what is he going to do about Patrick? How long does he need to stay here to finalize the divorce, because he’s pretty content with going to him now. But that’s not how this should work. He doesn't want one foot in and one out. They’ve been doing that and it hasn’t been working. 

Pete gets out of bed, heading to the kitchen when he frowns. Because he can hear Gabe humming and the sound of dishes sliding together. He honestly hadn’t expected Gabe to come home after their last argument. And certainly not cooking and...shouldn’t he be at the hospital right now?

Pete hovers in the doorway of the kitchen and raises an eyebrow at Gabe’s tattered pajama pants and Motown t-shirt. Pete can’t even remember the last time he saw that shirt. 

“Good morning,” Gabe says with a grin, scooping eggs onto a plate. 

“Morning,” Pete says, still not moving from his spot. 

Gabe hums some more, clearly not in any hurry to explain what’s going on. 

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Pete asks hesitantly, still glued to the doorway like it’s his life support. 

The toaster springs two pieces of toast up and Gabe grabs them before setting them on the plate with eggs. He hands it to Pete. “I took the morning off. We need to talk.”

Couldn’t agree more, Pete thinks as he takes the plate and slides into a seat at the kitchen table. Gabe fixes up his own plate and balances it on his arm while bringing over a couple of coffees. 

Pete laughs a bit at that. “I could have helped.”

“No, no, I got it,” Gabe insists, setting everything on the table carefully. 

Pete takes a hesitant sip of his coffee and raises an eyebrow to Gabe, letting him know that he’s waiting for him to start. 

“Um,” Gabe says, unnaturally flustered, “I’ve been thinking about what you said, about me prioritizing work over you. Over us.”

Pete’s heart squeezes, because this isn’t the conversation he wanted to have. He doesn’t want to hear Gabe trying to fight for them because Pete’s pretty sure he doesn’t have any fight left. He’s certain that he’s not going to be the man that Gabe wants, and isn’t convinced that Gabe is going to change his expectations. 

But this is the man he’s loved since they were kids. And it fucking hurts, it feels like he’s smashing his heart and then trying to rebuild it into a different shape. Because his life has been Gabe for so long, it’s not like he can just drop everything and start a new life with Patrick. No matter how dreamlike that sounds, this is his reality and he owes it to him and Gabe to sort through that first. 

“Ok,” Pete says softly, setting his mug down on the table, “What does that mean exactly?”

Gabe nibbles on his toast and sighs, looking down at his coffee like he’s trying to find the answers in the liquid. “I think we should try some counseling?” 

Pete’s lips quirk up a bit. Gabe in counseling seems like a funny image, especially when he can see Gabe arguing school of thought instead of actually talking about himself. “Uh huh,” Pete says, “And who’s idea was that?”

Gabe blushes a little. “A colleague.”

Pete hums and takes a bite of his eggs. “Couples counseling isn’t going to fix everything, Gabe.”

Gabe nods. “I know. And I... I want to include you into what I’m doing. Have you come see me at the hospital sometimes and,” Gabe hesitates and looks up at Pete, “Maybe you should look into finding a band again. I’ll come out to your shows, it’ll be like old times.”

It sounds too good to be true, like Gabe is just telling him what he thinks Pete wants to hear. “Ok,” Pete agrees softly, and he opens his mouth to say more but he just doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to say now. 

“I know you’re hesitant,” Gabe says for him, reaching out to take his hand, “and you have every right to be.”

Pete nods, because fuck yeah he does. But he’s not malicious, he knows things have been hard for Gabe too. “We can try this,” Pete says slowly, watching Gabe’s thumb stroke over his hand, “But if it doesn’t get better…” he tails off and his next inhale is shaky, “I don’t want to keep carrying around a broken marriage.”

Gabe doesn’t say anything at first, just stares down at the wedding band on Pete’s finger. “I know,” he says finally, thumbing at the band like it’s fragile. Like any move he makes has the capability to shatter them both. “I’m just...I’m trying to do what I think is best.”

“And I need you to ask me what’s best for me,” Pete counters, “Not just assume you know.”

Gabe’s lips tighten into a grim line, and that’s worrisome. Because Pete can see the gears clicking in his mind, like he’s trying to process what Pete just said but it’s hitting a snag. Because at the end of the day, Gabe is always going to think he knows Pete best. That his medical experience makes him an expert on Pete’s mental health. That Pete isn’t allowed just to hurt simply because he’s hurting. 

He doesn’t want to be examined all the time. He doesn’t want a cure or for someone to tell him there’s something wrong with him. What’s the harm in just letting him feel? To let him trip and fall down and figure it out on his own. He just wants space to breathe and put himself back together in the way he wants. Not what everyone else wants. What  _ Pete _ wants. 

*

Patrick is sitting in a studio with a guitar in his hands, his foot nervously tapping against the floor in a beat too quick for the song he’s been trying to piece together. 

Pete hasn’t checked in this morning and Patrick is too chicken shit to start the conversation himself. 

“Do you think that maybe he’s waiting for you?” Mikey drawls when Patrick calls him a bit later.

“That’s not really his style,” Patrick says, thinking about how fearless Pete usually is. 

“Yeah but you said he was drunk that night,” Mikey reminds him, “Maybe he’s embarrassed or--”

“Hey,” Pete says quietly, and Patrick drops his phone on the ground. 

He can hear Mikey’s voice echoing up from the floor, “Um, Patrick?”

Patrick hurries to pick up the phone and says, “Call you back,” before hanging up. 

“Hey,” Patrick says, sitting back down in his chair. He can see that Pete is sitting outside, on the porch somewhere looking out onto a big, green backyard. “I thought there was a drought in LA.”

Pete chuckles, “Not with our gardener.”

Patrick scoffs a little and leans back in his chair. He can tell there’s something off, and he’s pretty sure it’s not embarrassment. “What’s going on?”

“Last night wasn’t a mistake,” Pete says, “You know that right?”

Patrick feels his heart quicken and he waits until Pete says, “Trick?”, before answering, “Yeah.”

“I, um,” Pete starts, then he sighs and shifts in his chair, “I’m married, Patrick.”

Patrick bites his lip, his stomach dropping and he feels his hands getting damp with sweat. This isn’t how this conversation was supposed to go. It was supposed to be Pete telling him he’s getting on a plane to come to Chicago or him at least telling him that he’s going to leave his husband. It’s not supposed to be this melancholic tone of him reminding Patrick that he’s fucking married. 

“I didn’t forget,” Patrick bites out. 

Pete squeezes his hand and Patrick wishes he could snatch it away, but he’s got no control over the matter. He doesn’t have control over any of this and that’s probably what’s killing him the most about this situation. He’s got no say in what happens next, and that’s not a place that Patrick likes to be. And it’s a place that he keeps finding himself in lately. The band ending. Mikey moving away. Pete. Fucking Pete Wentz. 

“He’s...we talked and, Trick, I owe him a chance to--”

“You’ve given him years of chances,” Patrick tells him, “Why does it change now? Why are you giving in  _ again _ when you have the option--the fucking right--to get out of there?”

“It’s not that simple,” Pete counters, “It’s not...Patrick he’s my fucking  _ husband _ .”

“And how long has it been since that’s meant anything?” Patrick bites out. He knows he’s overstepping, knows he’s being pushy and this is about the point where Mikey would tell him he’s letting his temper get the best of him again. 

“You don’t understand,” Pete grits, “How could you? You never let anyone stick around enough to even have an inkling of what loyalty means.”

Ouch. “I know when to get out of a bad situation,” Patrick seethes. 

“Right,” Pete scoffs, “At the bottom of a bottle. That’s excellent coping skills.”

“Oh fuck you,” Patrick says, “You’ve got no room to talk.”

“Yeah, and look what fucking happened?”

“Thought it wasn’t a mistake?” Patrick fires back, “Or was that just a way to butter me up before telling me I’m nothing but a--”

“Stop,” Pete interrupts, “Don’t fucking do that. I’m not trying to belittle what we have.”

“What do we have?” Patrick shouts, throwing his hands up, “Because from where I’m at, it looks like I’ve got nothing but a voice inside my head.”

“That’s not true,” Pete whispers, “Trick, this isn’t...you think that this just happens to anyone? That this isn’t something special--”

“--then why are you--”

“Because I can’t live with myself if I don’t--”

“--so now I have to live with it too?” Patrick asks softly, “I have to live with you in my head in love with him? I have to hear you, fucking  _ feel _ you, know that you’re just as a part of me as I am, but know that I can’t have you?”

“You have me,” Pete whispers, and Patrick’s sure it’s an attempt to hide the tears Patrick feels welling in his eyes. 

Patrick rubs at his own eyes and sniffles, fuck, “Not in the way that matters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of rough conversations in this chapter, but I promise a happy ending.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for all the love on the last chapter.

There’s a persistent knocking that Patrick is trying to ignore. 

He rolls over and, forgetting that he fell asleep on the couch again, falls to the floor. He groans and curls onto his side, squeezing his eyes closed tighter and breathing in deeply until the sharp pain against his hip dulls to an ache. Only, his head is still pounding--but that’s probably more from the empty bottle laying on the floor rather than the fall itself. 

More knocking. 

“Go away, Pete,” Patrick mutters, and it’s only then that he opens his eyes, because it’s not Pete. It’s someone at his door. 

He sighs dramatically and hauls himself off the floor before stumbling to the door. The knocking has gotten louder and now there’s an angry, “Patrick, I swear to God!”

Patrick frowns and opens the door to a very scary looking Mikey Way. 

“ ‘the fuck?” Patrick mumbles, only to be pushed to the side as Mikey storms into his condo. Patrick hovers by the door, shutting it and turning to watch Mikey continue straight into his kitchen as if he’s not even here to see Patrick. 

And then he hears bottles rattling against each other and, oh, “Mikey, don’t--”

Mikey comes into view holding one of Patrick’s _nice_ whiskey bottles. “Tell me why I’m here in your sorry condo instead of being at home with my wife who is carrying my fucking child?”

Patrick shrugs, he honestly doesn’t know why Mikey is here. He hasn’t called him in a bit, but they’ve gone a while without talking before. Oh shit, unless he drunk dialed him?

Mikey wiggles the bottle in his hand. “You told me you stopped.”

“Um…” Patrick starts, but then he’s starting to get pissed. Because what right does Mikey have to even be here right now? Yeah, he’s right, he has a pregnant wife in Jersey he should be with. He left. He fucking left, just like _everyone_ does. And Patrick is fucking done letting people who leave come back. “Get out.”

Mikey’s nostrils flare. Patrick’s only seen Mikey really mad a handful of times and they’re usually directed at his brother whenever he’s fucking up. Mikey’s gotten frustrated with Patrick, sure, but never like this. Never burning eyes and heavy breathing angry. “Excuse me?”

“Get the fuck out,” because here’s the thing, anger is sorta Patrick’s M.O. And he has no problem directing it at people who don’t necessarily deserve it. He knows, he fucking knows, that Mikey is here to help. In whatever capacity he thinks Patrick needs right now. And sure, maybe Patrick is just pissed because he’s still very much in the self destructive phase of handling (or not handling) his conversation with Pete. 

They haven’t talked in weeks. Maybe even over a month. Not for the lack of trying on Pete’s part. He’s always there, and Patrick does his best to ignore him, which is next to impossible with Pete’s sad voice, “Trick, please” and “Don’t make me think I made you up” and “I know you’re real, just please talk to me” and “Patrick I _need_ you.” Patrick always feels his tattered heart scream at that last one, but he can’t do it. He can’t open up that connection with Pete again. Not if he’s just going to watch Pete wilt away in that house on purpose. Not if he’s going to stay in a loveless marriage and leave Patrick on hold in case Gabe doesn’t work out. Patrick has shit self-esteem, but even he knows he deserves more than that. 

So yeah, maybe Patrick has been drinking like a sailor again but that’s only because it makes it easier to ignore Pete. It’s easier to let Pete’s pleading words drift off into nothingness when his head is all swimmy and blurred beyond recognition. 

“No, you _asshole_ ,” Mikey grits out, “I’m not leaving you to drink yourself to death.”

“You already left!” Patrick yells, then winces and he’s not sure if it’s the volume or the words itself that splits his head. 

Mikey deflates a bit at that and takes a deep breath. Patrick finally takes in Mikey’s state, sees the redness around his eyes and Patrick is trying very hard to not think about the fact that Mikey might have been crying. His hair is wild like he’s been pulling at it in the way he does when he gets nervous, and there’s definitely a coffee stain or two on his shirt.“Ok,” Mikey says slowly, blinking even slower like his mind is still trying to process what Patrick’s just said. And, wow, Patrick really sounds like a clingy nutcase right now. 

Mikey shifts a bit on his feet, pressing his lips into a thin line and considering before saying, “I don’t think...I’m, fuck, Trick.”

“ S’okay,” Patrick mumbles, walking over to Mikey to take the bottle out of his hands and walk into the kitchen. 

“It’s okay if it’s not,” Mikey tells him, following him, “I knew that you were going through something, and I--”

“Stop,” Patrick groans, sitting on a barstool at the kitchen counter. He unscrews the bottle of whiskey and takes a drink, even smirking a bit at Mikey rolling his eyes. “It’s fine.”

“It obviously isn’t,” Mikey says, taking a seat next to Patrick. He takes the bottle from Patrick and takes a drink himself. “You know it’s not even ten in the morning. I don’t think I’ve drank this early since college.”

“You mean the four classes you took, then dropped?” Patrick grins, stealing the bottle back, “I don’t think that counts as going to college.”

“Whatever,” Mikey snorts, then he watches Patrick take another drink, “I’m going to dump out all your bottles, you know that right?”

Patrick takes an extra drink then hands it back to Mikey, “I figured. At least take that bottle for yourself. It’s fucking expensive.”

Mikey rolls his eyes again, but he smiles around the bottle as he takes another drink. Then, “I take it you don’t remember calling me last night?”

Fuck, he did drunk dial him. 

“What do you think?” He bites back, reaching for the bottle but Mikey holds it out of reach. Fuck Mikey and his long arms. 

“You said some scary shit, Trick,” Mikey tells him, “At least from what I could decipher from the slurring and mumbles.”

“He didn’t pick me,” Patrick says, like that’s the answer to everything. And from the way Mikey doesn’t say anything, it’s not the answer he was looking for. So, Patrick leans forward on his elbows and digs deep for the ickiness that Mikey apparently wants to see. “I’m sick of people leaving me,” he says, then tries to soften the blow with a laugh, but it comes out like a scoff, “I’m starting to take it personally.”

Mikey doesn’t say anything for a minute and Patrick thinks that maybe he’s said the wrong thing again. But then Mikey sighs, “Jesus, Patrick.”

Patrick winces. 

“You know I love you right?” Mikey asks, “You’re my best friend and I never _left_ you. I physically went to Jersey to take care of Alicia and build a crib and shit, but I didn’t _leave_ you. I was still just a phone call away, I still...fuck--” Patrick looks over and sees Mikey pinching the bridge of his nose, his hand shaking-- “I still dropped everything and flew out here when I thought you were choking on your own vomit. You... _fuck._ ”

Patrick frowns and reaches out for Mikey, who sets the bottle down on the counter and pulls Patrick in for a hug. “You don’t get to do that to me again,” Mikey whispers harshly, “I get that you’re hurting, but that means you ask for help.”

Patrick nods, willing to agree to anything just so that he doesn’t have to see Mikey this worked up ever again. And he thinks he gets it, where Mikey is coming from. Because he’s not sure he’d survive thinking something seriously bad happened to him. 

Mikey hugs Patrick tightly before leaning back and staring at him hard, and Patrick can’t help but think what a great dad he’s going to make. “Go take a shower,” he tells him, “I’ll clean up in here.”

Patrick knows what he means by “clean up” and the stubborn part of him wants to fight some more, but the bigger part of him that loves Mikey doesn’t want to put him through any more. So he gets up and goes to the shower. 

He’s a little wary of Pete poking into his mind now that he’s not drunk, but he’s probably got a bit longer before Pete even wakes up and starts his day. Thank God for timezones. 

The hot water does feel good, makes him feel a little more human. And, oh, yeah, his hip is definitely going to bruise from the fall this morning. He washes his hair twice, because maybe Mikey wasn’t being over dramatic about his vomit, and he’s sorta worried where that happened and how gross it’s going to be to clean up. 

Getting out of the shower is a sick moment of deja vu. _Need help with that?_

Patrick grits his teeth and hurries to change and stand in front of the mirror. He shaves, just to have a task to focus on instead of reliving memories or facing Mikey just yet. Facing Mikey and the fact that this is actually a problem now. Drinking has always been a thing, and it always annoyed the other guys in the band, but it seems different this time. Maybe not AA different, though he’s sure Mikey and his sober older brother will disagree with him on that. He’s not ready for that kind of issue though. He’s not sure he can handle being a washed up musician and an alcoholic. With a soulmate who dumped him? Yeah, that’s one sad situation and Patrick is really quite content to just sweep all that under the rug and maybe take up knitting or something. Maybe he’ll go back to school, only he’s pretty sure even Mikey did better in school than he did. 

When he comes out to the living room, Mikey is sitting on the couch and the whole place smells like Pinesol, “You owe me.”

Patrick winces. “Yeah?”

Mikey chuckles darkly, flipping through the channels on the television. “Oh yeah. Big time. Like you better get my daughter the best stroller on the market for Alicia’s baby shower.”

Patrick sits next to him and nudges him with his shoulder. “Daughter?”

Mikey grins, and he doesn’t even try to dampen it like he used to do when they were growing up. He’s so fucking happy, he doesn’t even care how it looks on his face. “Yeah, we found out a couple weeks ago,” he says, then looks over at him and smirks, “You were being too dramatic for me to tell you.”

Patrick sighs, “I’m sorry.”

“Should be,” Mikey agrees, but he nudges him back and settles on a rerun of Law and Order, something that both of them have already seen. He waits until the episode is over to ask, “So, do you want to talk about it? Like, actually talk instead of mumble about how you’re not good enough?”

Patrick’s stomach turns. “How long are you going to hold this meltdown over me?”

Mikey shrugs, “Probably until you get your head out of your ass.”

Patrick snorts. “No, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“He chose his husband, Gabe right? Why?”

“This is me not talking about it,” Patrick reminds him, taking the remote out of Mikey’s hands to turn up the volume. 

Mikey lets Patrick have his way for about ten more minutes before he takes the remote and hits mute. “No really, I don’t understand.”

“What’s there to understand?” Patrick grits, “He wanted a doctor and a nice house instead of the disaster that I am.”

Mikey scoffs and pushes at Patrick. “Stop with the self depreciation already, it stopped being cute when you hit twenty-three.”

“I don’t know, Mikes,” Patrick sighs, shrugging, “He just didn’t want me.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Mikey says softly, “I think he doesn’t think he deserves you.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “I’m not a prize.”

“I think I might kick his ass for making you doubt yourself,” Mikey tells him, pulling out his phone.

Patrick narrows his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Looking up takeout,” Mikey says, “Your fridge is completely empty.”

“There’s lunchables in there,” Patrick points out, remembering he had gone to the gas station down the block the other day when he ran out of cheese slices to make grilled cheeses. “Better get used to them sin---”

And then Patrick can’t talk. 

Can’t talk because his head is swimming more than it ever has on alcohol. He knows Mikey is calling out to him, is shaking his shoulders but Patrick isn’t even in the living room. He’s not really anywhere, not like how he feels when he gets a peek into Pete’s life.

He sees flashes of images. Fluorescent lights. Shuffling sneakers in front of him. White hallways. 

There’s a smell of disinfectant. Muffled noises of someone speaking to him. Feels hands around his wrists. 

And then it’s gone and Patrick is back in the living room with Mikey over him with wide eyes and trembling lips, like he’s trying not to cry. Mikey must see the moment Patrick’s eyes come back into focus because he pulls Patrick up into a hug. “You asshole,” he grits, then pulls away and slaps Patrick’s shoulder, “What did I say about scaring me?”

“It’s Pete,” Patrick breathes, putting all the broken puzzle pieces he was given together. Pete was trying to show him something. Was trying to ask for help. “Pete’s in trouble.”

Mikey narrows his eyes. “What kind of trouble?”

“I don’t--” Patrick gets up and starts pacing. “Fuck, I don’t know. I couldn’t tell what was going on, there were just flashes of things.”

Mikey nods, sitting up straight and watching Patrick. “Ok,” he says, in a forced calming tone, “What did you see?”

“Nothing _useful_ ,” Patrick bites, and he knows it’s not Pete’s fault, but shit, what was he supposed to do with whatever it was Patrick saw? Maybe it’s Patrick’s fault for shutting Pete out for weeks. What if he weakened their bond or whatever? What if Pete is really in danger and he just fucked him over and--”

“Patrick,” Mikey says, “Hey, stop catastrophizing things and tell me what you actually saw.”

Patrick takes a deep breath because, yeah, Mikey’s right. Freaking out isn’t going to help Pete any. “Ok, there were fluorescent lights, and um white walls. I saw shoes and could smell...it was like being in a swimming pool?” Patrick starts, “No, not chlorine though, just it smelled sterile.”

“A hospital,” Mikey says, frowning. 

“He’s in the hospital?” Patrick squeaks, suddenly in motion. 

“What are you doing?” Mikey asks, getting up from the couch.

Patrick hurries into the bedroom and finds his wallet and shoes. “I’m going to LA apparently.”

“I’ll buy the tickets on my phone, save us some time,” Mikey says, pulling out his phone and it makes Patrick pause. Mikey looks up, “What?”

Patrick can’t help himself, he smiles a little bit, “You’re coming?”

“Of course I’m coming,” Mikey scoffs, going back to his phone, “Half to save your boyfriend, and half just to see if he really exists.”

Patrick laughs and fumbles around his nightstand to try and find his keys. He finds them in his underwear drawer because apparently Drunk Patrick is a bit of a dipshit, and then they’re hurrying out the door, but not before Mikey says, “Wait, grab a jacket. You always get cold on planes.”

Patrick snorts. “Ok, _Dad_.”

Mikey wrinkles his nose. “No, that just sounds creepy when you say it.”

Patrick has Mikey drive, mostly because his hands are still shaking and also because Mikey apparently doesn’t want to die if Patrick checks out again when Pete reaches out to him. 

“I think they gave him something,” Patrick tells Mikey as they get on the highway, “My head felt all blurry.”

“Probably a sedative,” Mikey says, knuckles white on the steering wheel and Patrick reaches over to set a hand on his shoulder. Because Mikey’s been there before. Back when the road and recording got too much for him, Gerard got him some help. But Patrick wonders how bad it had to have gotten before it got worse. Mikey wouldn’t let Patrick visit him while he was hospitalized, and he still doesn’t talk much about it. 

“He might have had another breakdown,” Patrick sighs, leaning back in his seat, “He kept saying he needed me and I tuned him out.”

“You were hurt.”

“Doesn’t make it ok,” Patrick whispers. 

Mikey lights a cigarette. “What’s the plan here?”

“I’m kinda just making it up as I go along,” Patrick says sheepishly. 

Mikey snorts. “Just like old times, huh?”

It’s not until Mikey is shoving Patrick to the window seat that he starts to realize he’s actually doing this. For months he’s been wanting to hop on a plane and go out to LA to see Pete. Wanted to show up on his doorstep with a bag of burritos and cheesy 80s movies to win over his heart. He’s just a little sad that it had to happen this way. 

“Trick?” 

Patrick nearly jumps out of his seat and Mikey shoots him a worried look. Patrick shakes his head and sets a hand on Mikey’s shoulder to let him know he’s ok. “Pete, hey, are you ok?”

“Trick?” Pete asks again, his words slurring like he’s still half asleep. But Patrick focuses and he can see that Pete is in a hospital room. Can feel the scratchy blankets around him. 

“Yeah,” Patrick says softly, then he lets go of Mikey’s shoulder so that he can squeeze his own hand. “I’m right here. I’m sorry I’ve been--” but he stops himself, “We can talk about that later. Where are you?”

“Saint Mercy’s” Pete breathes, and his eyes must close again, because Patrick’s world goes dark. He brings his vision back to the airplane and hears Pete’s soft gasp. “Are you on a plane?”

Patrick grins, for the first time in weeks that tightness in his chest loosens and when he takes a breath it actually fills his lungs all the way. “Yeah, I’m on my way to you.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end friends, about two chapters left <3

Pete’s not exactly sure how he got here. 

What he remembers is going to couples counseling with Gabe and listening to Gabe talk about his problems at work. What he remembers is going to meet up with Gabe at the hospital to have lunch, only to sit in his office for hours until he remembered that Pete was still waiting. He remembers trying to plan dates only for them to fall through when Gabe’s fucking pager beeped. That he still spent nights alone in that huge house, only it felt more cold because Patrick wouldn’t answer him. 

And he gets that. He probably would have done the same. But maybe not for an entire month. 

Pete thought that Patrick would cool down enough to let Pete back in and they could talk things out. They could at least be friends when really all Pete wanted was to tell him that he made a horrible mistake and he wants to come home to Patrick. 

But Patrick wouldn’t give him the chance. 

And the fucking drinking. Pete had called out to him multiple times, pleading for him to stop. Screaming at the top of his lungs to stop drinking himself to death, that what they had wasn’t worth hurting himself over. But that wasn’t exactly true, because it felt like Pete was falling apart too. Pete  _ hurt _ . So deeply, that he thought he wasn’t going to be able to get up the next morning. 

Because healing from your own broken heart is one thing, but healing from two broken hearts that beat as one is entirely different. And Pete should have known that from the beginning. 

But he kept showing up to counseling appointments. Kept meeting Gabe for lunch even though he’d just end up sitting in an empty office. Kept planning dates that would never happen. Kept laying alone in bed wondering how his life had gotten here. 

And then one day he snapped, because how could he not? 

“I’ve met someone,” Pete had said one morning while Gabe poured his smoothie into his travel cup. 

Gabe nodded. “Oh, a friend? That’s good, perhaps they can get you out of the house more. You know I told you that Tina needs a pottery buddy and--”

“Gabe!” Pete snapped and Gabe frowned and set his cup on the table. Pete took a deep breath to try again, “I fell in love with someone else.”

Gabe pursed his lips and leaned against the table, which wasn’t the reaction that Pete had expected at all. “Is this the guy that’s in your head?”

Pete’s blood had run cold and he stumbled back a couple steps. “How…”

“I’m not dumb, Pete,” Gabe sighed and he looked at the clock, “Fuck, I though this had gotten better. You’ve stopped having so many episodes lately.”

Episodes?

“What are you--”

Gabe had reached out and took Pete’s hands and squeezed, and all Pete could think about was how it made his skin crawl. “Pete, honey, whoever you think is in your head isn’t really there.”

“Yes he is,” Pete whispered, feeling his eyes well. Patrick  _ was _ real. He knew it, knew that those days spent talking to Patrick really happened. That watching Patrick walk through the aquarium was real. The feeling of his hands on him. His music in Pete’s head, the melody that hasn’t left his heart since Patrick played it for him. He knows that night in Patrick’s bathroom really happened. He knows he didn’t make it up. 

“Patrick, please,” he had begged, despite Gabe looking at him with wide eyes. 

But he got no answer and

Pete had squeezed his eyes shut because maybe Gabe is telling the truth. Patrick had shown up when Pete was losing it at that party with Gabe. When he started questioning what a life without Gabe might look like. Patrick had been there to fill in his loneliness, to occupy the gaps that Gabe had created. But when Pete had made the decision to give Gabe another chance, to put in the work, Patrick left. He hasn’t heard from him in a month. So maybe he did make him up. Maybe this all really was in his head.

Pete hadn’t fought it when Gabe had him committed this morning. They still gave him medication to sedate him anyway, to make it easier. And Pete had accepted that he was crazy just like everyone thought, that he needed help. Needed help to erase Patrick. 

But when he woke up later, he saw splashes of Patrick talking to Mikey. Could feel him bouncing his leg nervously the way he did whenever he had to sit for too long. And it felt so crystal clear, just like it used to be that he couldn’t help himself when he asked tentatively, “Trick?”

And he wants to believe Patrick when he says he’s coming for him. He wants to believe that this is really happening, that it’s not all in his head, but he’s not sure. He’s not really sure of anything anymore. 

“I’m about to land,” Patrick says and Pete can feel him bouncing his leg again. 

“Nervous flyer?” Pete teases, because he really can’t help himself. If he’s crazy he guesses he’ll enjoy it while he can. 

“Nervous about meeting you finally,” Patrick admits. 

Pete sees Mikey and how he keeps smiling slightly, sorta smug like he’s been telling Patrick to stop being an asshole. Pete really likes Mikey.

“Sure,” Pete answers. 

Patrick pauses then, “Sure?”

“I mean, I guess we’ll--”

“Pete, I’m here. I’m in L.A. right now,” Patrick cuts him off. 

Pete sighs and sits up, leaning back so that his back is up against the headboard. He stares down at the hospital band around his wrist. “I’m in the psych ward, Patrick,” Pete points out. 

“You’re not hallucinating me,” Patrick grits out and Pete feels him shake from the plane’s wheels hitting the runway. “I’m going to see you in like twenty minutes.”

“You’re being pretty optimistic about L.A. traffic,” Pete muses, then, “I’m pretty sure I can’t have visitors.”

“You can break out.”

Pete sees Mikey shoot them a wild look and he hisses, “You didn’t tell me that was part of the plan!”

“Making it up I go, remember?” Patrick says.

“I can’t break out,” Pete points out, “My husband knows everyone in this hospital, and they all know me. There’s no...and my door is locked from the outside.”

“They  _ locked _ you in?” Patrick exclaims as the plane chimes to signal that they can take off their seatbelts. 

“Good thing I called in an anarchist,” Mikey mutters, getting up. 

Patrick follows and Pete can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “You called Andy?”

“Texted. But yeah, he’s waiting outside for us,” Mikey says. 

“Hear that?” Patrick asks, sounding like a kid on Christmas morning, “We’re on our way to you now.”

Pete bites his lip and he knows Patrick can sense his hesitancy because he says, “Pete, I know I fucked up this past month and I owe you a much bigger apology once we...I want to say some things but they’re meant to be face to face.”

Pete’s not sure that will actually happen and he’s pissed that all this has escalated to this point. To give him this hope of something that might not actually happen. “Patrick…”

“I know I’m asking a lot of you,” Patrick whispers, “You have no reason to trust me, but I’m asking you to. Just this last time, I promise I’m not going to let you down again.”

Pete feels like his heart is constricting tighter and tighter until it shatters all over these hospital sheets. “Trick--” he chokes out, eyes hot with tears. 

“All I’m asking you to do is meet me halfway,” Patrick begs, walking off the plane and into the airport. 

Pete grips the hospital sheets in his hands. Sneaking out will only make things worse for him if he gets caught. He thinks about the way Gabe would lost his fucking mind. Thinks of him calling Pete’s parents and how disappointed in him they’ll be again. How he’ll just be another thing that needs to be fixed in their eyes. How he’ll cease to be his own person after all of this. 

But that’s what will happen too if he doesn’t  _ try _ . If he just sits in this room and leaves Patrick waiting out in the parking lot. Because there’s this part of him that is still adamant about Patrick being real. There’s this all encompassing feeling washing over him, something warm and soothing whispering  _ he’s here.  _

So he lets go of the sheets and says, “What do I need to do?”

*

“There’s like a million videos on how to pick a lock,” Patrick whines as he scrolls through the search results.

Pete chuckles and Patrick can see him scanning the room. “I don’t really have anything in here anyway.”

Andy pipes in, “Are there any paper clips? Any paperwork with staples in them?”

Pete looks down at the intake forms that are sitting on the desk in his room and removes the paperclip that’s holding them together. 

“He’s got a paperclip,” Patrick tells Andy. 

“Yeah, you can twist that into something to open the lock,” Andy says, turning onto the highway. Pete was right about the traffic. He sighs and looks at his phone that tells them they’re still about twenty minutes out. 

He switches back to the YouTube video he was watching and frowns when he sees that they’re using two paper clips. “You don’t have another?” Patrick asks even though he already knows the answer. 

“You can do it with one,” Andy explains, “Having two is easier because you can have one be the pressure wrench but--”

“Why do you know this?” Mikey asks with a raised eyebrow. 

Andy shrugs. “Came in handy now.”

“Did you anticipate our lead singer falling in love with some guy across the country that he met in his head and having to break him out of a mental hospital?” Mikey drawls. 

“No, can’t say I did,” Andy grins and then says to Patrick, “You got to get him moving, picking that lock is going to take time if he hasn’t done it before.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “He can hear you, you know.”

“I don’t know how mind melting works,” Andy insists. 

“I thought you were vegan?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Aren’t you in that weird---”

“Patrick, I don’t think we really have time,” Mikey cuts in and Pete laughs. 

“How did you guys get anything done as a band?” Pete asks. 

Patrick grins, despite the ache he feels in his heart at the mention of their broken band, “You’d be surprised. Now straighten out that paper clip.”

Pete starts to bend the paper clip out so that the end is stretched out into a line. 

Patrick nods, “Yeah ok, now bend the end of that a little so it sorta looks like a wine opener.”

Pete laughs, “A corkscrew you mean?”

“Whatever,” Patrick mutters, “And then you sorta just have to wiggle the paperclip around in the lock.”

Pete sighs and Patrick watches as he squats down so that he’s eye level with the lock. “Here goes nothing.” 

Patrick watches him try to wiggle the paper clip inside, but he’s yanking it around too much. “No, it needs to be a smooth motion so all the pins set.”

“There’s usually five in American locks,” Andy remarks. 

Patrick’s not sure if that really helps Pete, but Pete nods like it means something. He’s still jerking too roughly and Patrick eyes the time on the dash, “Pete, you’re still jerking too much.”

“It’s not as easy as it looks,” Pete snaps. 

“I fucking know that I’m--” but Patrick cuts off when he sees Mikey shoot him a look like  _ knock it off _ and he says gently, “You’re doing great, babe.”

Pete huffs a laugh and says, “Sweet talking will--” but cuts off when with a cheer when the door unlocks. 

“He did it!” Patrick exclaims and Andy fist bumps the air as Mikey grins. 

They’re turning off the highway and Patrick says, “Alright, we’re almost there.”

“Yeah, just pull up to the front,” Pete says, slipping out of his room. Patrick holds his breath as he watches Pete walk quickly down the hallway and slip into an “Employee’s Only” stairwell. Patrick wants to say that maybe that’s not the best idea, but he’s pretty sure Pete knows the hospital a lot better than he does. 

Patrick’s attention swings back to the car when Andy jerks the car into a stop and Patrick groans when he sees that they’re stopped in a long line of traffic. “Fuck,” he says, “he’s already out, Andy, he can’t just hang around the front door and wait for us.”

Andy gestures at the long line of cars in front of him. “What do you want me to do? I’m not Magneto where I can just shove them to the side with my mind.”

“I don’t even know what you just said,” Patrick quips and he looks at his phone to see how far away they are. They’re not far, but with this dead stopped traffic it could take forever. 

“Meet me at the hospital,” Patrick says, opening the car door. 

Mikey reaches out to grab his hand. “What the fuck are you--”

“I waited long enough,” Patrick says, meeting Mikey’s eyes and they melt into understanding. Mikey knows more than anyone how much this means to him. How it’s not just that he’s been waiting to see Pete for all these months. It’s that he’s been waiting for Pete his whole life. He’s spent years looking for Pete in the wrong beds and at the bottoms of bottles. He’s spent years traveling the world looking for someone to fill that void in his heart, and he found him finally in his own mind. He’s looked way too long to feel this complete, and he’s not risking losing it by waiting any longer.

“Call us when you get to him,” Mikey whispers, “We’ll be right behind you.”

Patrick squeezes his hand and then darts out of the car, taking off into a run along the street. His asthma is not fucking happy about that, but he’s hoping his body will forgive him once this is all said and done. “How are you doing?” Patrick says breathlessly. 

“Better than you,” Pete chuckles, slipping into another hallway and trying to walk down it like there’s nothing going on. 

Patrick looks at his phone and turns down the main road that leads to the hospital. “I’m not working out for months after this, just so you’re aware.”

Pete laughs. “Oh we’re not going to be one of those couples that has matching tracksuits and--”

Patrick stops and bends over with his hands on his hips. “Stop, don’t make me laugh right now, holy fuck.”

Pete’s still laughing when he gets to the main lobby of the hospital and freezes. Patrick takes off running again. 

Because there’s Gabe, standing there talking to another doctor. 

“Just walk right past him,” Patrick urges, seeing the hospital now. Almost there. 

He feels Pete square his shoulders and start walking. Patrick’s rounding into the parking lot just as Gabe looks up and frowns. 

“Pete?”

*

Pete freezes and he hears Patrick whisper, “Fuck.”

“Pete, how did you...what are you doing?” Gabe asks, taking a step closer to him. 

Pete takes a step back and Gabe huffs, looking agitated. Agitated. That’s--Pete thinks that look right there is the nail in the coffin. Not the selfishness in therapy or the missed dates. Not the years of only being on his arm when it benefited Gabe. Not the arguments and the invasion of privacy. Not even feeling like he and Gabe had more miles between them than he and Patrick had. It’s the fact that Pete feels cornered and helpless and Gabe is getting agitated, making it about him and how this is all an inconvenience to him. 

Gabe takes another step and Patrick whispers, “Just run past him, Pete, come on I’m right outside the door.”

Pete focuses on Patrick and yeah, he sees Patrick looking up at the glass door that’s separating them. All Pete has to do is get through the lobby and then turn down the hall to the door. He could be in front of Patrick within seconds if he just  _ moved _ . 

He feels Gabe’s hand circle around his wrist, but it doesn’t feel like his husband’s loving touch. It feels restraining. 

Pete doesn’t even remember his arm pulling back and then snapping his fist forward, but he’s aware of his knuckles crying out and Patrick yelling, “Run! Pete, Run!”

And Pete’s wild laughter mixes with Patrick’s, “Holy shit,” as he takes off running. 

This is it, he thinks, as he reaches the hall that will take him to Patrick. He hesitates only for a moment, only for one final doubt of  _ what if he’s not there? _ But he hears security coming, hears the jingle of their keys and hears them shouting for him to stop.

He rounds the corner into the hall and sees Patrick standing there, looking like he’s about to fall to his knees.  _ Come here _ , he sees Patrick mouth, confused as to why he can’t hear him in his head anymore. But that doesn’t matter right now. Nothing matters besides the burn in his legs as he runs down the hall. He can’t even focus on that, or the way his lungs seem to not be able to hold the air in his lungs. That his whole body is vibrating and his mind is still catching up to the fact that all this waiting is over now. 

The glass doors slide open and Pete is hit with a rush of wind, pushing the warm L.A. air against his skin, but he still feels chilled. Almost like he’s looking at a ghost, but when he runs into Patrick, he hits solid warmth. Patrick lets out a shaky breath and wraps his arms around him, taking a few staggering steps back from the impact. Pete’s ears are ringing and he’s trying to tell his body to calm the fuck down so he can savor this moment of being held. Really being held and not just his mind telling him that Patrick is hugging himself. Not a metaphysical trick. This is right now, right here, and Patrick is really touching him. 

Patrick’s face is pressed into Pete’s neck and he’s inhaling deeply, like he’s taking in how he smells. His hands roaming over his back and tracing down his spine, no doubt trying to convince himself of the same thing that Pete’s trying to do.

Pete feels a brush of lips against his skin and he shivers, shivers that rock through his entire body as he picks up what Patrick is saying. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you now,” 


	11. Chapter 11

Patrick’s in heaven for about three seconds before he remembers that they’re still trying to escape and that there’s security coming out the hospital doors now. 

Patrick tries to remove himself from Pete’s death grip on him, but only gets squished closer. “Pete, we gotta move.”

It seems to break whatever safety cocoon Pete had snuggled into, because his eyes widen and he drops his arms. Patrick frowns and takes his hand, not quite content with the idea of not touching Pete  _ at all _ and breaks into a run. 

More running. Yay…

He pulls out his phone and barely gives Mikey the time to answer before he rushes, “Where are you guys?”

“Turning in--I see you,” Mikey says. 

Patrick vows never to make fun of Andy’s ridiculously small eco-friendly car ever again, because the sight of it pulling into the parking lot is the sweetest thing Patrick’s ever seen. Well, that and the shocked looks on Mikey and Andy’s faces when he drags Pete to the car and gets them both in the backseat. Apparently they hadn’t a hundred percent believed that Pete was real, and it’s both reassuring and completely fucking psychotic that his friends dropped everything to help him break his “imaginary” boyfriend out of a psych ward. 

Andy wastes no time peeling out of the parking lot and Patrick can’t help but smile at the relieved look on Pete’s face as he watches the hospital and security staff grow smaller and smaller out the back window. 

Patrick’s a little too aware of everything now that the adrenaline is dying down. He can’t help but notice Andy looking at him in the rear view mirror every couple of minutes or how Mikey is not so subtly staring at Pete. His body feels completely zeroed into the fact that Pete is still holding his hand and Patrick can feel that his hand is slightly damp and he really wants to wipe the sweat off on his jeans but he also really, really doesn’t want to let go of Pete now that he finally has him. 

“I figure we’ll crash at my place until we come up with a game plan?” Andy asks, turning off the highway and heading towards a subdivision. 

Huh. 

Well, yeah, that does make sense. And with that, an avalanche of questions and ‘what ifs’ come crashing down on his happily dazed mind, because they have a  _ shit _ ton of things to talk about. And he’s not even sure what they should start with, which monumental question is first. Should they address the horrible month that just passed where Patrick stayed significantly drunk so that he wouldn’t have to interact with Pete? Or do they talk about what Pete is going to do about Gabe? Is he going to move to Chicago? Should Patrick move out to LA? Are they really considering moving across the country when this is the first day they’ve even met? And what about Pete getting a divorce? Should they even start this while Pete is going though--

“I can hear you thinking from here,” Mikey mutters, “And I’m not even soul bonded to you.”

“You know people actually think you’re the quiet one?” Patrick snips back.

“There is a lot we need to…” Pete starts, but trails off and Patrick can see similar questions forming in his mind. 

Another thing they should probably address is how Patrick can’t feel what Pete’s feeling anymore. He doesn’t hear what he does, or see what he’s looking at out the window. He wonders if maybe it only works when they’re apart. Though there’s also this feeling of dread that maybe it was a one off thing. Maybe the bond was to bring each other together, and now that they are, it’ll stop. He supposes that’s not a bad thing. Not while he has Pete physically here with him, but there’s this part of him--selfish or childish maybe--that wants that bond back.

Andy pulls up to a moderately sized house, almost quaint for the neighborhood they’re in. Pete still looks unsure as he gets out of the car, not letting go of Patrick’s hand and just pulling him along. They follow Andy inside and there’s a moment of awkward silence as they sort of conjugate in the kitchen. 

“So, Mikey and I are going to grab lunch for everyone,” Andy says, shifting a little uncomfortably.

Mikey looks between Pete and Patrick before settling on Patrick and giving him  _ a look _ . “Yeah, on the other side of town.”

Real subtle there, Patrick thinks. But he’s grateful to not have an audience and he sees Pete’s shoulders relax when Mikey and Andy head back out of the house. 

“Come on,” Patrick says softly, tugging at his hand, “Let’s get you into some normal clothes.”

Pete looks down and frowns at the hospital issued sweats like he had forgotten they were still on. Patrick leads them up the stairs and into Andy’s room. He digs through his dresser and finds a t-shirt that will no doubt swallow Pete and a pair of athletic shorts that at least have a drawstring. 

“Thanks,” Pete says, taking the clothes with the hand that’s not still gripping Patrick’s. 

Patrick smiles and looks down at their tangled hands. “You know you’re going to have to let me go so you can get changed, right?”

“I’m pretty creative.”

Patrick’s mind immediately goes to that night in his bathtub, because if that wasn’t creativity, Patrick doesn’t know what is. He feels his cheeks burn and then hears Pete chuckles softly at him. “I’ve been waiting to see that blush,” Pete whispers. 

Patrick looks up and, fuck, Pete’s so goregous it hurts. And not the type of gorgeous that Pete’s used to hearing. Well, he is that too, but Patrick’s noticing little imperfections that he didn’t get to see from Pete looking in the mirror. Things like a small scar on the bottom of his chin, nearly invisible though Patrick can see the indent. The way his left eyebrow is raised slightly higher than the other to make him look like he’s curious about everything. The redness around his eyes from lack of sleep and the chapness of his lips. Things that make him beautifully real.

“Pete,” Patrick breathes, just so he can watch the way Pete’s face reacts to his name. It’s like an incantation, a spell that works through Pete’s body and his face is twisted into a smile and desperation all at once. 

Pete nods, “Yeah, ok,” before reaching out to cup Patrick’s cheek and pull him into a kiss. 

Patrick’s imagined this moment so many times over the last few months. Fantasized about how Pete would taste or how their lips would move together. If they would stumble at first before finding how they fit together, or if their bodies--bodies that knew each other long before they did--would just simply move on instinct. 

It sorta just defies everything that’s Patrick’s ever known. Kissing Pete doesn’t feel like coming home, because kissing Pete feels like he’s never left. Feels like part of him has been here all along and Pete’s just been taking care of his heart until the rest of Patrick was ready to come and retrieve it. 

Patrick walks Pete back out of the room without breaking the kiss, because he’s pretty positive he knows where this is going and he does  _ not _ want that to happen on his friend’s bed. He leads them into the guest room and pushes Pete back on the bed, grinning at the huff of breath that hits Patrick’s face. 

He can’t stop cherishing these little proofs that Pete is here with him. That they’re in the same room and touching. Patrick pulls his shirt off and lets it fall to the ground, watching the way Pete’s eyes darken before leaning up to press his lips to his bare skin. It’s electrifying, like Pete had run across carpet in socks before touching him. Pete shivers like he feels it too and then they don’t stop moving. Patrick stops trying to figure out which hand belongs to him and which belongs to Pete. Forgets to distinguish whether he’s tasting Pete or himself on his skin. Everything is mingled, swirled together like a melting pot and Patrick grins to himself because it’s been that way since the beginning with them. 

Pete pushes the rest of their clothes off each other and the first press of him on top of Patrick has his eyes fluttering shut at the intensity of it all. 

“Hey, no,” Pete whispers, cupping his cheek, “Patrick,  _ look _ at me.”

Patrick does, and he understands why Pete needs that. Needs to have all their senses firing off together, to keep their bodies in the present to prove to themselves that this is really happening. And Patrick wonders how long it’ll take for them to start trusting themselves again. 

Probably should have had that talk before just jumping into bed, but Patrick forgets about being responsible--forgets about shoulds and coulds and even what-ifs--as Pete licks a long strip down his sternum. Patrick lets out a breath that feels like Pete’s physically reached in and pulled it out of him. And he very well could have, because Patrick would give anything to this man. Is perfectly content to lay out before him and offer whatever Pete desires. 

Pete takes his time exploring Patrick’s body, and it feels different to Patrick. His body feels like someone else’s under Pete’s hands and tongue, like it’s a body worthy of praise and love. As if he’s earned this kind of devotion that Pete is dishing out and the thought of that makes his eyes sting--and fuck him if he starts crying during sex. 

But Pete’s hands are trembling too, as if he’s overcome with emotions as well. Patrick thinks it’s probably for the best that they’re not still bonded or whatever, because this is intense enough without all the extra sensations. 

Patrick leans up to capture Pete’s slick lips, and he tastes salt so he feels a bit better about getting a bit misty eyed. Patrick’s hands drape over Pete’s jaw, rub at the bone structure there and slip a little to press his thumb to Pete’s pulse point. It reminds him of the music in his mind, the kind that always composes itself whenever he thinks about Pete. How it’s been so erratic before, hopelessly hopeful and frantically crying out for him. Loud and dramatic, the kind of music that usually makes Patrick cringe and want to crawl under his bed. 

But now it’s steady, like a heartbeat. It’s sure even though Patrick isn’t sure what they’re going to do after this. Isn’t sure what’s going to happen when Mikey and Andy come back to start asking the hard questions. He’s not sure what will happen when this moment ends and they have to start building a new future from scratch. But the pulse under Patrick’s thumb is strong, like it’s giving him the backbone he needs to just let go. To just stop trying to solve all the puzzles, stop trying to compose everything himself. Because he’s got a partner for all that now. He’s got someone who has the codex, who knows how to decipher Patrick’s swirly thoughts that he can’t find words for. Who can listen to the noise Patrick makes and say exactly how that bass or drums is supposed to feel, can  _ listen _ to Patrick and not just hear him. 

Pete kisses down Patrick’s neck and keeps moving down Patrick’s body, like he’s coaxing all his nerves awake. Like Patrick’s body has been asleep all this time. Because he’s fucking sure he’s never felt like this before. He’s never felt so breathless before, never felt like his skin was buzzing and like his blood was an ocean being rocked by the biggest thunderstorm. He feels unsteady, like his pulse points are just landmines and any moment Pete is going to blow them away. 

“Pete,” Patrick gasps when Pete swirls his tongue around Patrick’s nipple, thumb stroking the other lazily. Pete doesn’t hear him, or he’s ignoring him, and sucks hard and Patrick never fucking thought he was a nipple guy, but he’s pretty sure he just blacked out for a moment there. 

Pete chuckles like he knows and brings his tortuous lips down to his navel, nipping at the skin there before sliding further down. He trails his nose down the length of Patrick’s cock, breathing shaikly before pressing a too chaste kiss against his balls. 

“Seriously--” Patrick bites out, “I’m not going to break.”

“I might,” Pete breathes, looking up at him and Patrick sees the fucking desperation there. Sees the years of living in a loveless marriage boil up to the surface and it’s ripping every last bit of Patrick’s heart to see that exposure on Pete’s face.

“Whatever you want,” Patrick vows, without thinking. He reaches out without thinking, moves without thinking because he doesn’t need thoughts right now. He doesn’t need anything but Pete to know, “I love you.”

Pete’s lips descend on his, feverish and melting Patrick into the mattress. His hands roam over Pete’s face, stroke down his cheeks and over his damp eyelashes, then against their lips moving over each other just to feel what love feels like on the outside. Wants to equate this to the roaring in his ears and fluttering of his heart. 

Pete pushes Patrick down to the mattress, pushing harder on his shoulder when Patrick tries to lean back up to kiss him again. And then he stops fighting and cries out when he feels Pete take the head of Patrick’s cock in his mouth and suck hard. 

Patrick thinks he’s just chanting Pete’s name as Pete swallows Patrick down, as his nose buries against his pubic hair. He knows that his mouth is moving, feels his throat vibrate from his voice but the sound of his words are smothered by the heavy blanket of pleasure that covers him. His limbs feel heavy and he’s convinced he’s going to sink through the mattress and end up in some alternate reality where he gets to feel this good forever. 

And he’s got to be babbling by now, because Pete chuckles around the head of his cock and he reaches up to push two fingers into Patrick’s mouth. Patrick moans, welcoming the intrusion and sucks on them. He’s so fucking close already and it’s past the point where he can talk himself down from coming too soon. 

But then because Pete wants to apparently play dirty and not give Patrick a chance, he pulls his fingers out of Patrick’s mouth and trails them over his entrance. 

“ _ Fuck _ me,” Patrick groans. 

“Maybe later,” Pete promises, looking up to watch Patrick as he pushes in slowly, “I’m not fucking you with Andy’s condoms.”

Patrick snorts but it morphs into a moan when Pete hooks his fingers in the most perfect way. 

“Yeah,” Pete praises breathlessly, “Just like that.”

He pumps his fingers in and out Patrick slowly, turning his head to mouth at Patrick’s thigh almost absentmindedly.

“Please,” Patrick whispers when Pete adds another finger and he feels his thighs shake from the intensity of it all. 

Pete hums in agreement and takes Patrick back in his mouth, swallowing down just as his fingertips rub hard against his prostate and Patrick is sobbing through his orgasm. 

He’s convinced he went blind from it until Pete strokes his cheek and whispers, “Hey, open those pretty eyes for me.”

Patrick does and is rewarded with a kiss, soothing like Pete is trying to coax him back to the real world again. Patrick smiles against his lips and it feels loose as he trails his hand down to where Pete’s cock is straining for attention. 

Patrick wraps his hand around him and catches all of Pete’s whimpers in his mouth as he strokes him before saying, “come up here and fuck my mouth.”

Pete groans against Patrick’s mouth but he doesn’t hesitate to move up Patrick’s body. Patrick settles against the pillow and runs his hands up Pete’s thighs that come up on either side of his head. When Pete doesn’t get with the program, Patrick tsks and takes Pete in his mouth, closing his eyes at the salty taste and the way his lips stretch over the thickness of him. His hands move to cup Pete’s ass and he nudges him a little until Pete starts to thrust slowly. At least at first, because as soon as Patrick relaxes his jaw and just lays pliant, Pete’s hips start snapping like he’s possessed. 

Patrick groans at the feeling of Pete hitting the back of his throat, of his eyes starting to water from the strain and it just spurs Pete on until he gasping warnings of, “Trick, Trick, fuck I’m, Trick,  _ fuck _ …” And then Patrick is swallowing and stroking Pete’s sweaty hips like he’s milking more out of him. 

He’s a little worried that Pete’s just going to collapse on him, but he manages to move his shaking legs and lay down next to him. Patrick turns onto his side to bring their foreheads together and he can’t keep the blissed out smile off his face. 

Pete brings his thumb up to swipe at the corner of Patrick’s mouth, grinning at his sloppiness. 

“By the way,” Pete whispers, “love you too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally had every intention to have them actually have a real grown up conversation about what's going on, but of course that didn't happen. Next chapter, promise.


	12. Chapter 12

“All I want to know,” Joe says from Andy’s phone screen, “Is why I wasn’t invited to participate in a psych ward breakout.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and sips at his soda. 

“You’re sorta on the other side of the country,” Andy offers.

“Didn’t stop these two from meeting...or, whatever,” Joe says, frowning a bit in confusion, “So you guys can tell what each other is thinking?”

“No,” Patrick says at the same time Pete says, “Not really.”

“Awesome,” Joe laughs, looking at them like they’re superheroes or something. 

Patrick huffs and sinks back against the couch, looking grumpy and irritated. Which is sort of a default for him lately, and Pete thinks it’s cute but nerve wrecking at the same time. Because he knows that Patrick is all worked up over the fact that they still don’t know what they’re doing. 

Pete’s stared at his phone over the last two days with every intention of calling Gabe, but he never manages to press send once he pulls up his contact info. And he can’t bring himself to answer any of his calls or his parents’. But, he did notice a text to his parents and Gabe that says, “I’m safe, I just need some time”, and he knows that Patrick sent that for him. 

He had been ready to feel that same surge of annoyance over someone taking care of him when he didn’t ask for it, but it didn’t come. Because it was different when Patrick did it, and maybe it was because Patrick could just tell what Pete wanted without having to ask him. 

Pete wonders if that’s part of the soulbonding thing, or it’s just a Pete and Patrick thing. 

“Why do you think it stopped working?” Pete had whispered, tracing shapes into the blanket. 

Patrick shifted in bed and turned on the lamp. “Yeah, ok, I can’t sleep either,” he grumbled, then he sighed and shrugged, “I’m not sure. I think it’s because we’re together now.”

Pete looked uncertainly at him. “Do you think it would happen again if we were apart?”

Patrick’s face twisted into something somber, and it tugged at Pete’s heart. “I really don’t want to find out.” And Pete tried to push that month they still won’t acknowledge off to the side. Patrick had said there were things he wanted to talk to him about, but neither of them had the courage to tackle that right now. Pete thinks there’s a nonverbal agreement between them that they’re just trying to do one thing at a time. 

And it was sort of nice to have Pete’s body back to himself, but it did feel like something was missing. But only for a moment or two, because then Patrick would take his hand or push his foot up against his when they were sitting at Andy’s kitchen table. It sorta helped to know that Patrick was having a hard time adjusting to not feeling Pete all the time too. 

“So what are you going to do now?” Joe asks, leaning back in the gaming chair he was sitting in.

“Like a job or--” Pete starts.

“--Actually,” Mikey interrupts, putting his phone down finally, “that’s something I wanted to talk to you guys about.”

Patrick quirks an eyebrow and Pete watches them have some sort of nonverbal conversation between them before Patrick sighs, “Fine.”

“Pete’s a bass player,” Mikey says, looking at Pete, “I think you guys found my replacement.”

And then the room is deadly tense. Pete feels like his skin is going to peel off and go hide under the bed or something, because no way does he want to jump in and take over Mikey’s place. He’s been around the guys long enough to know that Mikey is sort of the glue that held them all together. Especially Patrick, and while playing in a band is The Dream ™ , he’s not sure he wants to fill those shoes. 

“Right on,” Joe says, shrugging like it’s no big deal, “So I should probably buy a plane ticket then. LA or Chicago?”

Pete stares at Patrick with wide eyes, and Patrick isn’t really much better. He’s got his soda halfway to his mouth, but it’s frozen there like he forgot how to drink. And Andy is grinning like someone just told him that Santa Clause is a real guy. 

“Chicago,” Pete finally says, proud that his voice sounds sure and firm.

Patrick sets his soda down on the coffee table and turns to him, eyebrows raised in surprise. 

Pete grins bashfully and shrugs. “I sorta want to go home?”

Patrick’s face melts down into that fondness that he’s been wearing everytime he looks at Pete lately. That warm expression that looks like he’s known Pete his whole life, like he’s dealt with his quirks and had all of his mannerisms memorized for years. It’s both unsettling and steady at the same time, and Pete’s learning that the two of them are never going to make sense. Learning that it’s sorta his favorite thing about them. 

“I just...um, I have to do something first,” Pete says, feeling his heart rate pick up. 

Patrick slides his hand over to Pete’s so he can squeeze his fingers reassuringly. 

*

It’s only been a total of three days since Pete’s seen Gabe, but it feels like a lifetime when he steps out of Andy’s car. 

“You’re sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Patrick asks from the driver’s seat. 

“Yeah...probably not the best idea,” Pete sighs, thinking about all the times Patrick has gone off on a tangent about what a shitty person Gabe is, “I’ve got it handled.”

Patrick pushes the shift stick into park and sits back against the seat, crossing his arms to look intimidating--which sorta looks a bit ridiculous on him. “Well I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

Pete holds back his laugh and leans in to press a quick kiss to Patrick’s cheek instead. “I know. I won’t be long.”

Patrick nods and starts fiddling with his phone to put on another one of his obnoxiously boring podcasts. Pete can’t help the chuckle that slips out as he shuts the door, mood slightly lifted. 

He sees Gabe sitting in the back of the cafe near a window, his eyes glued to his phone and Pete’s heart clenches at the sight. Because if he blinks, he sees the college kid he fell in love with. Sees him wearing some trashy homemade t-shirt with his hair sticking up in all directions with sleep and sweat. Can imagine that they’re meeting up for a post show coffee to get some caffeine in their bloodstream before walking each other to class. But then he blinks again and he sees the man he’s about to ask for a divorse, reading emails and not even noticing that Pete walked in. 

He doesn’t get anything from the counter, instead he just slips into the seat in front of Gabe and watches him slowly look up from his phone. His eyes are hard, like he’s trying to keep himself composed, but Pete sees the way his lips quiver a bit. 

“Hey,” Pete whispers. 

Gabe reaches out to take Pete’s hand, and Pete allows it. “Hey, are you--” but he cuts himself off and just squeezes Pete’s hand. 

“I’m fine,” Pete promises, “I’m...I didn’t mean to scare you like that.” He stares at the discoloration on Gabe’s jaw and frowns, “And I’m sorry I hit you.”

Gabe huffs a laugh and shrugs, withdrawing his hand. “My dad said I’m lucky it wasn’t a frying pan,” he says, taking a sip of his matcha tea, “That’s what my mom threw at him when they were talking about getting a divorce.”

Pete’s heart clenches uncomfortably and he shifts in his seat. “I--”

“I know we haven’t been working,” Gabe says softly, “And I did try--”

“You really, really didn’t,” Pete grits out, even though he promised himself he wouldn’t fight with Gabe today. That’s not what this is about. He doesn’t have to fight for him anymore, he has Patrick now. 

But part of him needs Gabe to know that he hurt Pete. That he gave up on him long before Pete stopped trying to make their marriage work. He wants Gabe to know that he hurt Patrick in order to give him another try, but he’s not really sure how to bring that up without sounding crazy again. And maybe Patrick meeting Gabe was a good idea after all...except Pete keeps seeing Patrick’s red angry face and he reconsiders. 

He wishes that he could feel Patrick right now. Wishes that bond was still open so that he could slip into him for a moment, just for a breather. He just wants to hear whatever old guy is droning on about in that stupid podcast series he’s been listening to about the history of Sudoku puzzles. Wants to feel the upholstery of Andy’s car being picked by Patrick’s nervous fingertips. 

“I know it seems that way to you,” Gabe sighs, frowning a bit in that condescending way. And Pete takes a deep breath to remind himself this isn’t the man he fell in love with all those years ago. It’s just fucking hard when he sees that person deep in him, even harder that he can’t really find it in himself to hate him for everything that’s happened. 

It’s really no one person’s fault for where they are right now. 

“I don’t…” Pete starts, then he takes a deep breath and says, “I don’t want anything.”

Gabe tilts his head to the side, confused and asks, “What do you mean?”

Pete folds his hands on the table and catches the way Gabe sees his wedding band missing from his left hand. “I want a divorce, but I don’t want anything else from you. I don’t want the house and I don’t want any of your money.”

“You don’t…” Gabe trails off, then he chuckles to himself, “What kind of power move is this, Pete?”

“It’s not,” Pete corrects him, “I just have everything that I need. I don’t need anything from you. Not anymore.”

The flash of hurt that flickers across Gabe’s eyes makes his hand twitch to reach out for him, but he keeps his hands on the table. 

“There’s really nothing--”

“--Can you honestly tell me you’ve been happy with us?” Pete whispers, “I don’t think you are. I don’t think you’ve...I think you’ve wanted this for a long time, but you didn’t want to fail at something.”

Gabe shifts in his seat and pushes his tea away from him with a frown. “You weren’t something to win,” he tells him, which surprises a laugh from Pete. 

“Seriously?” Pete asks incredulously, “It felt like all I was to you was a project to complete, something to fix or--”

“I wanted you to be better,” Gabe grits out, “I don’t understand how that made me the bad guy in whatever story you’ve come up with in your head.”

“That,” Pete says, sliding his hands off the table, “Is exactly the problem. It’s not all in my head, I’m not fucking crazy.”

“I’m not--” Gabe sighs in frustration, then takes a breath to try again, “I know you’re not crazy, Pete. You’re ill and you--”

“I’m not unable to make my own decisions,” Pete says sternly, “You treated me like I was something that would break. I’m not--”

“--You literally broke out of a hospital with a paperclip,” Gabe drawls, “I’m sorry if I think that your perception of your wellbeing is a bit warped.”

Pete laughs hard, and crosses his arms. “You think he’s made up don’t you?”

“Pete, honey, I know he is. I saw you talking to yourself, the whole table at that dinner saw you jump up and scream at a fire that wasn’t there.”

Pete grits his teeth and pulls out his phone. 

“What are you doing?” Gabe sighs. 

“Not that it really matters,” Pete says, “But the childish part of me really wants to see your face when you see Patrick.”

“Oh, Pete,” Gabe says softly, eyes sad, “Let me help you, please.”

Pete rolls his eyes and hits send. It only takes one ring for Patrick to answer, “What’s wrong?”

“Can you come in?” Pete asks, watching Gabe’s expression shift to pitying.

Patrick hangs up and Pete looks out the window to see him getting out of the car with squared shoulders and a set jaw. Pete probably should have told him to not bring his temper with him. 

Pete points out the window. “That’s him.”

Gabe frowns and then sighs. “Ok, so you have a friend who’s playing--”

“Gabe,” Pete drawls, and then watches as Gabe processes what’s happening. He can see the gears turning as the door to the cafe opens and he hears Patrick’s footsteps growing closer. To Patrick’s credit, he doesn’t run his hand along Pete’s shoulder possessively as he pulls out a chair and sits down, but he does hook his ankle around Pete’s and it’s enough of contact to loosen the tightness in Pete’s chest. 

“I see,” Gabe says slowly, frowning a bit, “I...look, whatever--”

“This isn’t some elaborate way to divorce you,” Pete presses, tilting his head to catch Gabe’s gaze, “We met while you and I were falling apart and it just…”

Gabe swallows and for a moment, he looks like that scared kid that used to sit up with Pete all night. The one who would whisper insecurities like “What if I’m not good enough” and “What if I don’t make something of myself?”

“Ok,” Gabe says hoarsely, all the fight leaving him in one full swoop. He grabs his phone and starts scrolling, “I can have the papers drawn up this afternoon.”

“Gabe,” Pete breathes. 

Patrick pats his thigh and whispers, “I’m going to go back outside to wait.”

Patrick, for all the anger that had been boiling around Gabe, looks heartbroken himself. And maybe it’s just  _ one _ of the reasons Pete’s fallen in love with him, the fact that Patrick can have such empathy. That he can sit across from the person who kept Pete from Patrick and still feel sorry for him. To mourn a love between Pete and Gabe, and to recognize that it’s not threatening to what he and Pete have now. 

“Ok,” Pete agrees and he notices the way Gabe watches him, analyzing and measuring what Patrick has that he doesn’t. “He’s a musician,” Pete says, like it explains everything, and maybe it does a little because Gabe grins, mischievous and knowing like he’s twenty-three again. 

“You always did have a thing for musicians,” he says wistfully, but Pete hears the acceptance there. Hears the opening to heal and move on from the torment they’ve been inflicting on each other for years. 

*

“No, throw that in the Goodwill pile,” Patrick says, wrinkling his nose. 

Pete frowns and holds up the horribly tacky polo that has so much embroidery, Patrick’s grandmother would cringe. “You think all my clothes belong to Goodwill.”

“Not true,” Patrick says, pointing at the miniscule pile of clothing laying next to the monstrous pile of neons and clashing patterns.

They’re sitting in Pete’s walk in closet, and it’s sorta weirding Patrick out that he’s in Pete’s house after seeing it from his eyes for all these months. Even weirder to walk around without Gabe around since he had promised he’d be at the hospital until later this evening. 

Everyone had chipped in to have Pete’s stuff transported to Chicago--after Mikey another comment about what sort of stroller he and Alicia wanted-- but Pete still wanted to go through everything and throw out whatever reminded him too much of his life here. And Patrick could understand that, could see the way Pete automatically put things in the Goodwill pile that made his face pale. 

Patrick had made a point to grab Pete’s bass and put it in Andy’s car right away, pausing a bit to just revel in the feeling of holding it in his hands. That after all this time, he’s going to be able to watch Pete play, to feel the vibrations coming from him and--

“Someone is in la la land,” Pete muses, dumping some rhinestone cowboy boots in the ‘keep’ pile. Patrick frowns, but Pete cuts him off, “I’m going to be a rockstar. I need tacky rockstar clothes.”

“I don’t think--”

“You remember that I’ve seen your leather gloves get up right?” Pete challenges with a raised eyebrow. 

Patrick blushes and picks at one of the sweaters sitting in his lap. “I think we’re going to go in a bit of a different direction.”

Pete lays back against the clothes and looks up at the ceiling. “Yeah? Like what?”

Patrick smiles softly, thinking that Pete looks like a kid who still knows how to dream. It had taken Pete a couple of days to shake off his conversation with Gabe, and Patrick wants to ask Pete what they talked about once Patrick went back to the car. He had waited another half hour while he watched Pete through the window smile ruefully and even laugh with Gabe. It seemed like they had left things in a good place, at least as good as they could be. But there was still something about Pete that seemed to die a bit. 

Patrick had worried it was whatever he was still trying to hang on to from his youth. But seeing him like this, eyes glazed over like he’s looking into their future with a tiny smile, makes him hopeful.

“What do you want?” Patrick asks quietly, mind made up to give Pete the world if he asked. Thinks he deserves much more than that, and Patrick is content with working to prove that to him everyday if he has to. 

Pete doesn’t answer for a bit, and Patrick wonders if it’s from not being asked what he wants for so long. From having people make choices for him, to decide what he’s capable of or allowed to do. And that’s what hurts Patrick the most, the idea that Pete could ever doubt himself because his worth has always been equated to what other people think. 

Pete sits up on his elbows and stares at Patrick with a wild grin, like he’s just come up with something magical, and the excitement is roaring his heart and body to life. Like he’s just remembered that he can breathe, that life is his to make of what he wants. 

Like he’s fallen in love after thinking love was only memories of venues and fading stage lights. 

Patrick can’t help but smile back, to feel his own burst of excitement. And he doesn’t even know what Pete is planning, doesn’t have the faintest idea of what Pete’s version of their future looks like. 

Patrick leans over, feeling like he’s falling. Feels like he’s diving in head first to a situation that he hasn’t had the chance to weigh out the pros and cons to, hasn’t worked to death like a puzzle taunting Patrick. But Pete reaches out to catch him, to pull him into a kiss. 

And Patrick can’t help but think falling into an unknown future with Pete sounds like the dreams he’s forgotten to imagine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got the epilogue next chapter, and then that's it friends. Thanks for reading <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh I can't believe that this fic is over, but here we are. Now I can focus on my 'Trick or Pete' fic. 
> 
> Writing endings are always a challenge for me, and sometimes I get too in my head about it. Thank you TooRational for reading over this and making sure I didn't sound crazy. And thank you to everyone who's been keeping up with this fic even when I took a bit of a break from it. <3

Patrick hates interviews. 

Especially the ones at ass o’clock in the morning where Pete somehow looks like he’s had the most luxurious sleep even though Patrick knows he only got a few hours. 

“Why are you glowing?” Patrick grumbles, rubbing at his face like he can convince it to get with the program and glow healthily like Pete. Pete who up until recently, only ate things that came in a package and drank things that were 90% sugar. 

“Someone’s grumpy this morning,” Pete murmurs, pressing a warm kiss to his cheek before turning on the coffee maker in the kitchenette of the hotel room. 

Patrick tries not to look soothed. It’s not like he likes being the diva of the group (Mikey’s words, not his), but there’s something so humiliating about instantly melting under Pete’s touch. Especially since he’s had years to get used to it now. 

He shuffles to the bathroom and contemplates if he wants to put in the effort for a full shower, or just put on extra deodorant and maybe wash his face. Shower means hot water though, and his muscles are being pretty pathetic after last night’s show. So, he sighs dramatically and turns on the hot water before stripping. 

The perks about being old--”Old _ er _ ,” Mikey would correct--was that they got to sweet talk management into letting them have more hotel nights. There’s only so many nights Patrick can handle sleeping in a bunk, and it’s a lot harder to curl up with Pete that way. And Patrick maintains that he’s only clingy at night because Pete won’t go to sleep unless Patrick physically wraps his limbs around him and holds him down on the bed. 

The hot water almost does the opposite of what Patrick wants, and starts to lull him back to sleep. He fights the urge to just lean his head against the tile and pushes through washing his hair and using Pete’s weird hippie body wash he got from Andy last Christmas. He’s pretty sure all natural vegan wash probably shouldn’t last almost a full year, but Patrick knows to pick his battles at this point. And arguing over body wash does not sound like something Patrick is up to. 

Not saying they don’t argue over petty things, Pete and Patrick will argue that the sky is blue on more than one occasion. Pete likes to say it’s because they’re so in each other’s head that sometimes they need to rebel against it. And Patrick will begrudgingly remind him that they haven’t been soulbonded in years. 

And that’s true. But it also isn’t. 

Patrick still feels like he knows Pete better than the people he’s known most of his life. And vice versa. It scares him sometimes, how Pete will finish his sentence for him or will write lyrics that perfectly describes what he’s trying to say but can’t find the words. Scares him that they can write a song together without speaking one word to one another. 

Scares him in the best ways though. 

Because Patrick’s never had that before. The closest it came to was Mikey, but Mikey had to work really hard to pull back all of Patrick’s layers to get to the soft middle that was rotting with self hatred and abandonment issues. Mikey had to find a way through trial and error to make Patrick forget about those, to find ways to distract him long enough to just get through the day and then the next until Patrick was sorta living a passable life. 

But Pete just gets it. In a way that’s so cellular, sometimes Patrick wonders if they’re even two seperate people. But then he’ll get a glimpse at Pete’s playlists on Spotify and will be reminded that of course they’re different people because there’s no fucking way he has Britney Spears in his ‘Most Played’ playlist. 

“Trick? You alive in there?”

Patrick huffs and turns off the water even though he didn’t get past washing his hair. He wraps a towel around his waist and opens the bathroom door. Pete smiles reassuringly at him and hands him a mug of coffee. “We have ten mintues before we need to meet the guys downstairs.”

Patrick grunts in acknowledgement and sips at his coffee, wandering back to the bedroom to get dressed. 

It’s funny that Pete is the responsible one now. When they first started this, it was hard to get Pete to focus on the responsibility part of being in a band. It wasn’t like he’d miss check ins and press on purpose, he just was so overwhelmed by what his life had become. Patrick understood, even if the guys grumbled a bit, that Pete hadn’t been outside his house or the fucking stores that Gabe had credit at in years. And that captivity vanishing all of a sudden was going to illicit some rebellious behavior that Pete should have had the time to work out of his system when he was younger. 

It’s hard to imagine Pete being married and a lawyer in his early twenties when Patrick was up on stages and sleeping in vans. Hard to wrap his mind around the fact that Pete never had the breathing room to fuck up and learn from his mistakes. So Patrick tried not to reign him in too much during those first few years, just kept a watchful eye out for him so he didn’t do any irrevocable damage. Mostly, those years just produced some hilarious photos on Patrick’s super secure drive. 

But they were hard too. Really fucking hard, because while Pete was testing the boundaries of his new freedom, Patrick had been trying to finding his. 

“Lunchbox, we gotta go or Andy is going to come up here and he still scares me,” Pete says. 

Patrick snorts. “Andy is a teddy bear and you know it.”

“Yeah, but he’s been doing all that crossfit,” Pete points out, turning Patrick to wrap a scarf around his throat. “S’cold outside,” he explains, leaning down to press so gentle kiss to the base of his throat before knotting the scarf in place. 

Patrick melts, he can only handle so much before he inevitably caves. “Why do we agree to do such early interviews?”

“Because we like getting paid?”

“Oh, that,” Patrick sighs, pulling reluctantly out of Pete’s arms so that he can go to the dresser and grab his keys and wallet that are sitting on top. 

Pete comes over and takes the sobriety chip that’s sitting there and tucks in into Patrick’s back pocket. “Almost time to get a new one,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant, but Patrick can taste the pride off his lips when he kisses him. 

They try not to make it a big deal about Patrick being sober now, because the decision didn’t really come about dramatically--well kinda. If Patrick is being honest with himself, and he tries to do that more often now, it should have happened years ago. There was just a point where he stopped liking himself when he drank. Because, and it took a long time for him to notice, he didn’t like the way everyone kept a wary eye on him when he ordered from the bar. Didn’t like how sometimes they were right to be concerned when he ended up yelling at Pete for no reason and crying in the bathroom by himself. 

He didn’t tell anyone about it, not even Pete, when he decided. And he likes to think that it was because he didn’t think it was a big deal, but it was more that he didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up if he fucked up. So for weeks, Patrick would find a meeting wherever they were and would make up piss poor excuses for sneaking off in the middle of the day before sound checks. 

“Alright,” Pete had finally said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the door that Patrick had been getting ready to walk through. “What the fuck is going on? Because if I wasn’t eighty percent sure that you’d never go through the hassle of cheating on me since you know how well that worked out for us before--no, let me finish, I’d think you were fucking off to go see someone.”

Patrick snapped his mouth shut because he knew how it looked. He was being dodgy the same way Pete had been with Gabe. But that was different, his mind had supplied. Those were different circumstances and--”We still cheated,” Pete had told him whenever that topic got  brought up.

“Only eighty percent sure?” Patrick asked, filing that bit of information later for them to examine.

“What’s with the secrets?” Pete had said, hanging his head a little and it had really fucked with Patrick’s head. Because he made it his mission every day to prove to Pete he deserved to feel wanted in every way.

So Patrick had pulled out his red chip that proved he hadn’t drank in a month. Pete frowned and took the chip from his hands, then he leaned his head back against the door and sighed, “Fuck, Patrick, why didn’t you just tell me?”

Patrick doesn’t really like to think about that conversation, so he tosses Pete his coat and fixes him with a look when Pete wrinkles his nose at it. “It’s fucking November in Michigan, you’re wearing a coat.”

“You’re awfully thin skinned for a Chicago boy,” Pete mutters, sliding his arms into the coat because Pete has also learned when to pick his battles, even if he’s not as good at it as Patrick. Pete would disagree. 

“I just don’t want a repeat of the cold you had last year,” Patrick says, tucking his scarf into his own coat and leading them towards the door.

Pete grimaces a bit, and buttons up the coat to his neck.

Andy and Joe are already waiting for them in the lobby, but that really isn’t anything unusual. They’re splitting up today for interviews so that they can get more out of the way. Especially since they took a week off after they finished the album because Patrick was near a breakdown at that point. 

Looking back at it, Patrick can see how Pete would think that. There aren’t many times anymore that Pete gets scared for Patrick, but that was one of those times. And Patrick kinda cringes at how upset he had gotten when Pete suggested they pushed the album back.

“Pushing the release back isn’t--”

“If you say it’s not a big deal, I swear to God,” Patrick warned as Pete held up his hands. 

“Babe, it’s not ready. We all think so,” Pete said. 

“Yeah, but it’s on  _ me _ ,” Patrick had gritted, and that surprised him a bit. He hadn’t really acknowledged that was what was wrong with him. Hadn’t suspected that might be the reason why he couldn’t sit still any longer, couldn’t breathe fully or hit the notes he wanted without feeling like his body was going to give out. 

“You haven’t been a solo artist in years,” Pete had reminded him, “Stop putting everything on yourself.”

“But--”

“It’s insulting to the rest of us,” Pete finished, setting his jaw. And that was a low blow, but Pete always knew where to hit Patrick the hardest. He usually tried to make his point without the punches, but sometimes it was the only way to get through the thick smoke in Patrick’s mind. 

“Oh,” Patrick had breathed, frowning a bit because it did change the perspective a bit. He’d always needed complete control over all his projects and it took Pete peeling away his death grip to get Patrick to let go, take a step back, and see the bigger picture. 

“We’re going to the college radio station right?” Joe asks, and it makes Patrick jump from not paying attention. 

Pete steadies him with a hand on the small of his back. “You still in la la land?” He muses.

Patrick rolls his eyes sheepishly. “Yeah, you guys head to the radio station. We should be done about the same time. Mikey and Emma want to do lunch at that cafe with the cats,” Patrick says. 

“Oh fuck yeah,” Pete grins, looking too excited for seven in the morning. But Patrick can let that slide since he knows that Pete loves to hang out with Emma. It’s a topic they’ve been dancing around recently, but Patrick is pretty content in borrowing Mikey’s kid whenever Pete gets that crazed baby fever look in his eyes. 

“Cool, we’ll see you guys then,” Andy agrees, hauling himself up from where he was leaning against the wall. 

“We have to remember to stop at that candy store we saw last night for Emma,” Patrick points out as he follows Pete out to their car. 

Pete chuckles as he slides in. “Mikey is going to send us Emma’s dental bill if we keep showing up with candy.”

Patrick shrugs. “I’m supposed to spoil her.”

Pete rests his chin on top of Patrick’s head as the car pulls off the curb. “I know,” he says in that velvety affection that always makes Patrick feel like he’s warm and safe.

And he’s blaming the cold for the way he snuggles into Pete, pressing his nose into his coat and breathing him in. Pete hums contently and unbuttons his coat so that he can pull Patrick in closer. Patrick smiles at the soft sweatshirt he’s wearing, reminding him that this was another obstacle they had gotten through. 

Pete’s image was always an internal battle, one that Patrick couldn’t do much but watch. Because it didn’t matter what Patrick said, didn’t matter what the rest of the band or even Pete’s therapist said, he wasn’t going to find peace in his own skin from anyone else. It was something he was going to have to work towards himself. 

For the first album, Pete didn’t change his signature ‘dark hair in his eyeliner rimmed eyes’ look and it sorta unsettled Patrick. But he hadn’t said anything, didn’t want to push anything when it came to Pete’s appearance. Especially since Pete was already self-conscious about being in the band to begin with. Was putting way too much pressure on himself when Patrick and the guys just needed him to be himself. 

Then he shaved his head. 

On stage. 

Patrick was so close to stopping the show so that he could take Pete to a fucking hospital or something because he clearly was having a meltdown. But he looked so composed, looked like this was exactly what he needed. And Patrick knew all about breaking down to build yourself up, so he just kept playing the songs that he and Pete wrote together. Singing them louder so that Pete could really hear them, could focus on something steady despite the uncertainty in his own mind. 

“Don’t fall back to sleep,” Pete warns softly, rubbing his back.

Patrick grins and looks up at him, at the crinkles around his eyes and the lines starting to form around his smile. He reaches up and pulls a bit on his long hair that’s spilling out of his knitted hat. 

It’s taken a while for Pete to feel like his own person. To let his hair grow out despite getting some grief from his parents. To wear baggy sweatshirts on stage instead of the tight shirts and girl jeans he used to wear. To throw away the eyeliner and just be himself. 

“I’m not,” Patrick mutters, but he snuggles closer and closes his eyes. 

*

“Um, they’re just creatures,” Pete says with a small smile and a shrug. 

In the beginning of Fall Out Boy, Pete felt like he had a lot to prove. And he knew in the back of his mind that it wasn’t the case, that Patrick would love whatever he brought to the table simply because he was Pete. But there was this pull in his chest that was reminding him not to fuck this up. That they were looking at him to contribute something to this band, he was supposed to fill Mikey’s shoes. He was supposed to, supposed to…

“Pete, Jesus, breathe,” Patrick had snapped at him when Pete’s pencil fell from his hands and he had to press his forehead on the table to keep from passing out. 

“You’re working yourself up,” Patrick’s voice soothed quietly as his hand found that spot on his back that always made it feel like Patrick was holding Pete together. 

Pete hadn’t been able to talk, hadn’t been able to get air in his lungs long enough to turn it into words that would explain to Patrick just how big of a deal this was. Because it wasn’t just that Pete was the new guy in the band. Not even that he was a little self conscious about his playing skills since it had been awhile. But there was this voice, and it sounded a lot like Gabe’s, telling him that he couldn’t play music for a living. That his law degree was hanging above his head and was going to drop at any moment from the neglect. 

“Alright, easy,” Patrick whispered, bringing his other hand to Pete’s chest, “Take your time, we’re just going to sit here until you feel like you can move, ok?”

Pete hadn’t been able to nod, but Patrick settled around him and kept the pieces of Pete together while he talked his body down from self-destructing. 

In the beginning, Pete had been too nervous about the band not liking his lyrics. Thought that maybe the newness of it all would wear off on Patrick and he’d realize what a failure Pete really was. There were times when Pete would slip notebook paper full of lyrics under the guys’ doors just so they could read them without Pete seeing their faces. Times were Pete would disappear for a couple days at a time and worried Patrick too much for his own good. Their own good. Because Patrick was fucking trying. He was trying to build this new relationship with Pete and start a new band without trying to hang onto his old one. 

Pete saw how hard Patrick worked at that. How he caught himself when he would say Mikey’s name in the studio, how he tossed out a bunch of half formed songs before they were even full thoughts because they sounded too much like  _ Soul Punk _ . And Pete tried not to let that all cloud his love and excitement for the band, but sometimes it was hard to know where he was allowed to be with all these shadows of Patrick’s past. 

“I gave up everything for you, I’d appreciate it if you stopped calling me Mikey,” Pete had gritted, giving up on the sour green jealousy coating his stomach. 

“I’m just used to--”

“Yeah I know,” Pete hissed, “But I’m here. Not him. Me.”

“Pete, I know--”

“I think it’s time you stopped being in love with your best friend, it’s not going to fucking happen. And I’m sick of you treating me like a second choice.”

That had probably been Pete’s lowest point in their relationship. He tries not to think about it now too much since it always makes his insides shrivel up like they’re trying to disappear. But it had needed to be said, for the both of them. And not because Patrick was really in love with Mikey, at least not in the same way that he was with Pete, but because they needed to knock down that boundary so Pete had room to move. 

Because up until that point, Mikey was something untouchable for Pete. He was Patrick’s hero, his voice of reason and his tether to home. And Pete didn’t want to ruin that for Patrick, didn’t even know how to dismantle it if he wanted to. But the Mikey pedestal was daunting to Pete, and he knew it had to come down in order for them to work. 

“They look like llamas,” the petite brunette interviewer says, smiling too wide to be sincere. 

But Pete powers through and just smiles back. “I guess they’re whatever you want them to be. I just thought they were weird and a bit scary.”

“Is that the message in the new album?”

Pete’s learned the hard way, that people are always going to be looking for a deeper meaning in everything he does. And at first he really let that get to him. He tried to make  _ everything _ mean something, but now he’s at the point in his life where he’s content for things to just be how they are. “I definitely think that things are weird and scary in the world right now,” Pete answers, looking out the corner of his eye to see Patrick nodding slightly, “And sure, that had an impact on our writing this time around.”

He likes to think that they’ve grown a lot over the years. That they’ve stopped relying on the fact that they spent months inside of each other’s head and have learned to actually communicate with each other. But somewhere down the line, Pete thinks he must have missed something. Because one minute he was barely in his thirties just trying to navigate a new relationship with both Patrick and the band, and then the next he’s pushing forty with Patrick staring at him and saying, “Let’s get married.”

“I don’t want to get married,” Pete had said, looking up at the ceiling instead of Patrick’s face. 

He didn’t need to be inside Patrick’s head to know that he was near tears, that Pete’s words stung like the worst form of rejection and that he heard the wrong words. Because Pete hadn’t said he didn’t want to get married  _ to Patrick _ , he just didn’t want to get married in general. 

“I know it didn’t go so well last time, but--”

Pete laughed. “Seriously?”

“I just...Pete,” Patrick sighed, and that made Pete sit up on the bed and look to where Patrick had still been standing with his hands in his pockets. Pete will probably never forget how Patrick looked so small. 

“I don’t want to jinx us,” Pete had whispered. 

Patrick nodded and said, “We managed to fall in love despite being thousands of miles apart. Despite Gabe and your stubbornness--”

“My stubbornness?” Pete challenged. 

Patrick shrugged. “Despite my…” he frowned, trying to come up with a nice term for his fuck ups because he’d been working on that in therapy. “Issues?”

Pete had grinned a bit and said, “A bit vague, but we’ll take it.”

“Despite all that,” Patrick continued, “We still managed to be here today. And that’s not counting all the shit we dealt with once we actually got together.”

Pete knew that, still knows that in fact. But there’s just something about signing a marriage certificate that really freaks him out. And it’s not even that he doesn’t want that commitment with Patrick. There’s no doubt in his mind that he’s going to be with Patrick until the day he stops being on this Earth. It’s more that the notion of marriage is sort of ruined to Pete. And he doesn’t want something with a negative connotation attached to his relationship with Patrick. 

“Let’s talk about the writing process more,” the interviewer says. 

Pete blinks, shaking off memories, and nods, “Yeah, ok.”

He can feel Patrick tense up because this is usually the part where he has to offer some input. Pete can handle the questions about the themes of the album or any funny stories from the recording process, but whenever they start asking about making the album, Patrick usually is expected to talk about the composition. 

“I know you guys pushed back the release date and--”

“We all felt that the songs we had could be better,” Pete cuts her off, cringing a bit at their publicist’s annoyed face flashing in his mind, but he knows he has to nip this in the bud before Patrick can make some self deprecating statement about himself, “And we thought our fans deserved the best versions of ourselves that we could present.”

The interviewer smiles and nods. “Was it more difficult to write this time around? I know that the two of you are sorta on the same wavelength when you write.”

Pete smiles at that even though he feels Patrick cringe a bit. “This time around was no different than others. We have that--” and Pete stops to turn at Patrick, smiling at the blush starting to form on his cheeks-- “I call it  cryptophasia. It’s when you have a secret language with someone that only they get.”

Pete holds Patrick’s gaze, knowing the inside joke there. Knowing that it’s not just a secret language, but a secret everything. It’s the way that Patrick knows when Pete isn’t going to be able to sleep that night. How he’ll instinctively take the mic whenever an interviewer is about to ask about Pete’s past. It’s knowing each other’s bodies and how they take up space in the universe. How their movements stir the atoms in the air and how they’re as predictable as a well tested experiment. The way that they are both the cause and reaction of each other. 

“That must make things easier,” the interviewer says. 

Patrick snorts, and it’s such a Patrick gesture that it has Pete laughing. Childish giggles that come tumbling out in the purest form of joy. 

“It’s anything but easy,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes even though he’s wearing a smile bigger than Pete’s. 

Pete catches his eye and thinks,  _ it’s worth it. _


End file.
